Fleurs du Mal Magazine
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Aloysius Bertrand
(1807-1841)
4 Poèmes
Le clair de lune
Oh ! qu’il est doux, quand l’heure tremble au clocher,
la nuit, de regarder la lune qui a le nez fait comme
un carolus d’or !
Deux ladres se lamentaient sous ma fenêtre, un chien
hurlait dans le carrefour, et le grillon de mon foyer
vaticinait tout bas.
Mais bientôt mon oreille n’interrogea plus qu’un silence
profond. Les lépreux étaient rentrés dans leurs chenils,
aux coups de Jacquemart qui battait sa femme.
Le chien avait enfilé une venelle, devant les pertuisanes
du guet enrouillé par la pluie et morfondu par la bise.
Et le grillon s’était endormi, dès que la dernière bluette
avait éteint sa dernière lueur dans la cendre de la cheminée.
Et moi, il me semblait, – tant la fièvre est incohérente ! –
que la lune, grimant sa face, me tirait la langue comme
un pendu !
La viole de Gamba
Le maître de chapelle eut à peine interrogé de l’ar-
chetla viole bourdonnante, qu’elle lui répondit par un
gargouillement burlesque de lazzi et de roulades,
comme si elle eût eu au ventre une indigestion de
Comédie Italienne.
C’était d’abord la duègne Barbara qui grondait cet
imbécile de Pierrot d’avoir, le maladroit, laissé
tomber la boîte à perruque de monsieur Cassandre, et
répandu toute la poudre sur le plancher.
Et monsieur Cassandre de ramasser piteusement sa
perruque, et Arlequin dé détacher au viédase un coup
de pied dans le derrière, et Colombine d’essuyer une
larme de fou rire, et Pierrot d’élargir jusqu’aux
oreilles une grimace enfarinée.
Mais bientôt, au clair de la lune, Arlequin dont la
chandelle était morte, suppliait son ami Pierrot de
tirer les verrous pour la lui rallumer, si bien que
le traître enlevait la jeune fille avec la cassette
du vieux.
– " Au diable Job Hans le luthier qui m’a vendu cette
corde ! s’écria le maître de chapelle, recouchant la
poudreuse viole dans son poudreux étui. " – La corde
s’était cassée.
Le fou
La lune peignait ses cheveux avec un démêloir d’ébène
qui argentait d’une pluie de vers luisants les collines,
les prés et les bois.
Scarbo, gnome dont les trésors foisonnent, vannait sur
mon toit, au cri de la girouette, ducats et florins qui
sautaient en cadence, les pièces fausses jonchant la rue.
Comme ricana le fou qui vague, chaque nuit, par la cité
déserte, un oeil à la lune et l’autre – crevé !
– " Foin de la lune ! grommela-t-il, ramassant les jetons
du diable, j’achèterai le pilori pour m’y chauffer au
soleil ! "
Mais c’était toujours la lune, la lune qui se couchait. –
Et Scarbo monnoyait sourdement dans ma cave ducats et
florins à coups de balancier.
Tandis que, les deux cornes en avant, un limaçon qu’avait
égaré la nuit, cherchait sa route sur mes vitraux lumineux.
Les cinq doigts de la main
Le pouce est ce gras cabaretier flamand, d’humeur
goguenarde et grivoise, qui fume sur sa porte, à
l’enseigne de la double bière de mars.
L’index est sa femme, virago sèche comme une merluche,
qui, dès le matin, soufflette sa servante dont elle est
jalouse, et caresse la bouteille dont elle est amoureuse.
Le doigt du milieu est leur fils, compagnon dégrossi à
la hache, qui serait soldat s’il n’était brasseur, et
qui serait cheval s’il n’était homme.
Le doigt de l’anneau est leur fille, leste et agaçante
Zerbine, qui vend des dentelles aux dames et ne vend pas
ses sourires aux cavaliers.
Et le doigt de l’oreille est le Benjamin de la famille,
marmot pleureur, qui toujours se brimbale à la ceinture
de sa mère comme un petit enfant pendu au croc d’une
ogresse.
Les cinq doigts de la main sont la plus mirobolante
giroflée à cinq feuilles qui ait jamais brodé les par-
terres de la noble cité de Harlem.
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Aloysius Bertrand poetry
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Bertrand, Aloysius
Museum Scryption in Tilburg sluit
per 10 januari 2011
Museum Scryption 10 januari a.s. definitief dicht !!
Bestuur en directie hebben besloten het Scryption, het museum voor schriftelijke communicatie in Tilburg, per 10 januari 2011 te sluiten. Ondanks honderden steunbetuigingen, inspanningen van bestuur, directie en medewerkers op politiek en maatschappelijk niveau wil de gemeente Tilburg de subsidie van € 200.000 niet voortzetten. Voor meer dan 20.000 bezoekers per jaar, van wie voornamelijk jeugd, houdt het op. Geen projecten meer met het onderwijs. Geen extra inkomsten van € 400.000 uit andere bronnen voor de gemeente Tilburg. Het ontslag is aangezegd aan alle 12 medewerkers per 1 maart 2011. De unieke collectie wordt veilig gesteld. Tot en met 9 januari 2011 is het museum gratis voor iedereen toegankelijk.
De kennis en ervaring, opgedaan in het 22 jarig bestaan van het Scryption, worden ingezet in een nieuwe organisatie die de naam Npuntnul zal dragen. De nieuwe organisatie gaat de ontwikkeling van communicatie en sociale media op de voet volgen en duiden. Npuntnul zal in samenwerking met jongeren activiteiten ontwikkelen als tentoonstellingen, media-installaties, lezingen en debatten, sociale mediaprojecten en aanbod voor het onderwijs. Npuntnul onderzoekt of Brabant breed werken mogelijk is en zal op uiteenlopende locaties tijdens verschillende gelegenheden aanwezig zijn, zoals op festivals en in scholen. De komende maanden worden gebruikt om de tentoonstellingen af te bouwen en de collectie in te pakken.
Collectie Scryption naar het buitenland?
De collectie van Scryption verdwijnt mogelijk naar het buitenland. Directeur Jolande Otten ziet geen mogelijkheid de collectie aan een Nederlands museum over te dragen. Ze wil de collectie pertinent niet opdelen en er is in Nederland geen enkele collectie die bij de collectie van Scryption aansluit. Indien de plannen tot een doorstart van het museum mislukken komen een aantal buitenlandse museua in beeld, zoals het Heinz Nixdorf-museum in het Duitse Paderborn en het Musée du Scribe in Franse Nîmes.
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fleursdumal magazine
More in: Museum of Literary Treasures, The talk of the town
Mark Twain
(1835-1910)
Saint Joan of Arc
I
The evidence furnished at the Trials and Rehabilitation sets forth Joan of Arc’s strange and beautiful history in clear and minute detail. Among all the multitude of biographies that freight the shelves of the world’s libraries, this is the only one whose validity is confirmed to us by oath. It gives us a vivid picture of a career and a personality of so extraordinary a character that we are helped to accept them as actualities by the very fact that both are beyond the inventive reach of fiction. The public part of the career occupied only a mere breath of time—it covered but two years; but what a career it was! The personality which made it possible is one to be reverently studied, loved, and marvelled at, but not to be wholly understood and accounted for by even the most searching analysis.
Note.—The Official Record of the Trials and Rehabilitation of Joan of Arc is the most remarkable history that exists in any language; yet there are few people in the world who can say they have read it: in England and America it has hardly been heard of.
Three hundred years ago Shakespeare did not know the true story of Joan of Arc; in his day it was unknown even in France. For four hundred years it existed rather as a vaguely defined romance than as definite and authentic history. The true story remained buried in the official archives of France from the Rehabilitation of 1456 until Quicherat dug it out and gave it to the world two generations ago, in lucid and understandable modern French. It is a deeply fascinating story. But only in the Official Trials and Rehabilitation can it be found in its entirety.—M. T.
In Joan of Arc at the age of sixteen there was no promise of a romance. She lived in a dull little village on the frontiers of civilization; she had been nowhere and had seen nothing; she knew none but simple shepherd folk; she had never seen a person of note; she hardly knew what a soldier looked like; she had never ridden a horse, nor had a warlike weapon in her hand; she could neither read nor write: she could spin and sew; she knew her catechism and her prayers and the fabulous histories of the saints, and this was all her learning. That was Joan at sixteen. What did she know of law? of evidence? of courts? of the attorney’s trade? of legal procedure? Nothing. Less than nothing. Thus exhaustively equipped with ignorance, she went before the court at Toul to contest a false charge of breach of promise of marriage; she conducted her cause herself, without any one’s help or advice or any one’s friendly sympathy, and won it. She called no witnesses of her own, but vanquished the prosecution by using with deadly effectiveness its own testimony. The astonished judge threw the case out of court, and spoke of her as “this marvellous child.”
She went to the veteran Commandant of Vaucouleurs and demanded an escort of soldiers, saying she must march to the help of the King of France, since she was commissioned of God to win back his lost kingdom for him and set the crown upon his head. The Commandant said, “What, you? you are only a child.” And he advised that she be taken back to her village and have her ears boxed. But she said she must obey God, and would come again, and again, and yet again, and finally she would get the soldiers. She said truly. In time he yielded, after months of delay and refusal, and gave her the soldiers; and took off his sword and gave her that, and said, “Go—and let come what may.” She made her long and perilous journey through the enemy’s country, and spoke with the King, and convinced him. Then she was summoned before the University of Poitiers to prove that she was commissioned of God and not of Satan, and daily during three weeks she sat before that learned congress unafraid, and capably answered their deep questions out of her ignorant but able head and her simple and honest heart; and again she won her case, and with it the wondering admiration of all that august company.
And now, aged seventeen, she was made Commander-in-Chief, with a prince of the royal house and the veteran generals of France for subordinates; and at the head of the first army she had ever seen, she marched to Orleans, carried the commanding fortresses of the enemy by storm in three desperate assaults, and in ten days raised a siege which had defied the might of France for seven months.
After a tedious and insane delay caused by the King’s instability of character and the treacherous counsels of his ministers, she got permission to take the field again. She took Jargeau by storm; then Meung; she forced Beaugency to surrender; then—in the open field—she won the memorable victory of Patay against Talbot, “the English lion,” and broke the back of the Hundred Years’ War. It was a campaign which cost but seven weeks of time; yet the political results would have been cheap if the time expended had been fifty years. Patay, that unsung and now long-forgotten battle, was the Moscow of the English power in France; from the blow struck that day it was destined never to recover. It was the beginning of the end of an alien dominion which had ridden France intermittently for three hundred years.
Then followed the great campaign of the Loire, the capture of Troyes by assault, and the triumphal march past surrendering towns and fortresses to Rheims, where Joan put the crown upon her King’s head in the Cathedral, amid wild public rejoicings, and with her old peasant father there to see these things and believe his eyes if he could. She had restored the crown and the lost sovereignty; the King was grateful for once in his shabby poor life, and asked her to name her reward and have it. She asked for nothing for herself, but begged that the taxes of her native village might be remitted forever. The prayer was granted, and the promise kept for three hundred and sixty years. Then it was broken, and remains broken to-day. France was very poor then, she is very rich now; but she has been collecting those taxes for more than a hundred years.
Joan asked one other favor: that now that her mission was fulfilled she might be allowed to go back to her village and take up her humble life again with her mother and the friends of her childhood; for she had no pleasure in the cruelties of war, and the sight of blood and suffering wrung her heart. Sometimes in battle she did not draw her sword, lest in the splendid madness of the onset she might forget herself and take an enemy’s life with it. In the Rouen Trials, one of her quaintest speeches—coming from the gentle and girlish source it did—was her naive remark that she had “never killed any one.” Her prayer for leave to go back to the rest and peace of her village home was not granted.
Then she wanted to march at once upon Paris, take it, and drive the English out of France. She was hampered in all the ways that treachery and the King’s vacillation could devise, but she forced her way to Paris at last, and fell badly wounded in a successful assault upon one of the gates. Of course her men lost heart at once—she was the only heart they had. They fell back. She begged to be allowed to remain at the front, saying victory was sure. “I will take Paris now or die!” she said. But she was removed from the field by force; the King ordered a retreat, and actually disbanded his army. In accordance with a beautiful old military custom Joan devoted her silver armor and hung it up in the Cathedral of St. Denis. Its great days were over.
Then, by command, she followed the King and his frivolous court and endured a gilded captivity for a time, as well as her free spirit could; and whenever inaction became unbearable she gathered some men together and rode away and assaulted a stronghold and captured it.
At last in a sortie against the enemy, from Compiègne, on the 24th of May (when she was turned eighteen), she was herself captured, after a gallant fight. It was her last battle. She was to follow the drums no more.
Thus ended the briefest epoch-making military career known to history. It lasted only a year and a month, but it found France an English province, and furnishes the reason that France is France today and not an English province still. Thirteen months! It was, indeed, a short career; but in the centuries that have since elapsed five hundred millions of Frenchmen have lived and died blest by the benefactions it conferred; and so long as France shall endure, the mighty debt must grow. And France is grateful; we often hear her say it. Also thrifty: she collects the Domrémy taxes.
II
Joan was fated to spend the rest of her life behind bolts and bars. She was a prisoner of war, not a criminal, therefore hers was recognized as an honorable captivity. By the rules of war she must be held to ransom, and a fair price could not be refused it offered. John of Luxembourg paid her the just compliment of requiring a prince’s ransom for her. In that day that phrase represented a definite sum—61,125 francs. It was, of course, supposable that either the King or grateful France, or both, would fly with the money and set their fair young benefactor free. But this did not happen. In five and a half months neither King nor country stirred a hand nor offered a penny. Twice Joan tried to escape. Once by a trick she succeeded for a moment, and locked her jailer in behind her, but she was discovered and caught; in the other case she let herself down from a tower sixty feet high, but her rope was too short, and she got a fall that disabled her and she could not get away.
Finally, Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais, paid the money and bought Joan—ostensibly for the Church, to be tried for wearing male attire and for other impieties, but really for the English, the enemy into whose hands the poor girl was so piteously anxious not to fall. She was now shut up in the dungeons of the Castle of Rouen and kept in an iron cage, with her hands and feet and neck chained to a pillar; and from that time forth during all the months of her imprisonment, till the end, several rough English soldiers stood guard over her night and day—and not outside her room, but in it. It was a dreary and hideous captivity, but it did not conquer her: nothing could break that invincible spirit. From first to last she was a prisoner a year; and she spent the last three months of it on trial for her life before a formidable array of ecclesiastical judges, and disputing the ground with them foot by foot and inch by inch with brilliant generalship and dauntless pluck. The spectacle of that solitary girl, forlorn and friendless, without advocate or adviser, and without the help and guidance of any copy of the charges brought against her or rescript of the complex and voluminous daily proceedings of the court to modify the crushing strain upon her astonishing memory, fighting that long battle serene and undismayed against these colossal odds, stands alone in its pathos and its sublimity; it has nowhere its mate, either in the annals of fact or in the inventions of fiction.
And how fine and great were the things she daily said, how fresh and crisp—and she so worn in body, so starved, and tired, and harried! They run through the whole gamut of feeling and expression—from scorn and defiance, uttered with soldierly fire and frankness, all down the scale to wounded dignity clothed in words of noble pathos; as, when her patience was exhausted by the pestering delvings and gropings and searchings of her persecutors to find out what kind of devil’s witchcraft she had employed to rouse the war spirit in her timid soldiers, she burst out with, “What I said was, ‘Ride these English down’—and I did it myself!” and as, when insultingly asked why it was that her standard had place at the crowning of the King in the Cathedral of Rheims rather than the standards of the other captains, she uttered that touching speech, “It had borne the burden, it had earned the honor”—a phrase which fell from her lips without premeditation, yet whose moving beauty and simple grace it would bankrupt the arts of language to surpass.
Although she was on trial for her life, she was the only witness called on either side; the only witness summoned to testify before a packed jury commissioned with a definite task: to find her guilty, whether she was guilty or not. She must be convicted out of her own mouth, there being no other way to accomplish it. Every advantage that learning has over ignorance, age over youth, experience over inexperience, chicane over artlessness, every trick and trap and gin devisable by malice and the cunning of sharp intellects practised in setting snares for the unwary—all these were employed against her without shame; and when these arts were one by one defeated by the marvellous intuitions of her alert and penetrating mind, Bishop Cauchon stooped to a final baseness which it degrades human speech to describe: a priest who pretended to come from the region of her own home and to be a pitying friend and anxious to help her in her sore need was smuggled into her cell, and he misused his sacred office to steal her confidence; she confided to him the things sealed from revealment by her Voices, and which her prosecutors had tried so long in vain to trick her into betraying. A concealed confederate set it all down and delivered it to Cauchon, who used Joan’s secrets, thus obtained, for her ruin.
Throughout the Trials, whatever the foredoomed witness said was twisted from its true meaning when possible, and made to tell against her; and whenever an answer of hers was beyond the reach of twisting it was not allowed to go upon the record. It was upon one of these latter occasions that she uttered that pathetic reproach—to Cauchon: “Ah, you set down everything that is against me, but you will not set down what is for me.”
That this untrained young creature’s genius for war was wonderful, and her generalship worthy to rank with the ripe products of a tried and trained military experience, we have the sworn testimony of two of her veteran subordinates—one, the Duc d’Alençon, the other the greatest of the French generals of the time, Dunois, Bastard of Orleans; that her genius was as great—possibly even greater—in the subtle warfare of the forum we have for witness the records of the Rouen Trials, that protracted exhibition of intellectual fence maintained with credit against the master-minds of France; that her moral greatness was peer to her intellect we call the Rouen Trials again to witness, with their testimony to a fortitude which patiently and steadfastly endured during twelve weeks the wasting forces of captivity, chains, loneliness, sickness, darkness, hunger, thirst, cold, shame, insult, abuse, broken sleep, treachery, ingratitude, exhausting sieges of cross-examination, the threat of torture, with the rack before her and the executioner standing ready: yet never surrendering, never asking quarter, the frail wreck of her as unconquerable the last day as was her invincible spirit the first.
Great as she was in so many ways, she was perhaps even greatest of all in the lofty things just named—her patient endurance, her steadfastness, her granite fortitude. We may not hope to easily find her mate and twin in these majestic qualities; where we lift our eyes highest we find only a strange and curious contrast—there in the captive eagle beating his broken wings on the Rock of St. Helena.
III
The Trials ended with her condemnation. But as she had conceded nothing, confessed nothing, this was victory for her, defeat for Cauchon. But his evil resources were not yet exhausted. She was persuaded to agree to sign a paper of slight import, then by treachery a paper was substituted which contained a recantation and a detailed confession of everything which had been charged against her during the Trials and denied and repudiated by her persistently during the three months; and this false paper she ignorantly signed. This was a victory for Cauchon. He followed it eagerly and pitilessly up by at once setting a trap for her which she could not escape. When she realized this she gave up the long struggle, denounced the treason which had been practised against her, repudiated the false confession, reasserted the truth of the testimony which she had given in the Trials, and went to her martyrdom with the peace of God in her tired heart, and on her lips endearing words and loving prayers for the cur she had crowned and the nation of ingrates she had saved.
When the fires rose about her and she begged for a cross for her dying lips to kiss, it was not a friend but an enemy, not a Frenchman but an alien, not a comrade in arms but an English soldier, that answered that pathetic prayer. He broke a stick across his knee, bound the pieces together in the form of the symbol she so loved, and gave it her; and his gentle deed is not forgotten, nor will be.
IV
Twenty-Five years afterwards the Process of Rehabilitation was instituted, there being a growing doubt as to the validity of a sovereignty that had been rescued and set upon its feet by a person who had been proven by the Church to be a witch and a familiar of evil spirits. Joan’s old generals, her secretary, several aged relations and other villagers of Domrémy, surviving judges and secretaries of the Rouen and Poitiers Processes—a cloud of witnesses, some of whom had been her enemies and persecutors,—came and made oath and testified; and what they said was written down. In that sworn testimony the moving and beautiful history of Joan of Arc is laid bare, from her childhood to her martyrdom. From the verdict she rises stainlessly pure, in mind and heart, in speech and deed and spirit, and will so endure to the end of time.
She is the Wonder of the Ages. And when we consider her origin, her early circumstances, her sex, and that she did all the things upon which her renown rests while she was still a young girl, we recognize that while our race continues she will be also the Riddle of the Ages. When we set about accounting for a Napoleon or a Shakespeare or a Raphael or a Wagner or an Edison or other extraordinary person, we understand that the measure of his talent will not explain the whole result, nor even the largest part of it; no, it is the atmosphere in which the talent was cradled that explains; it is the training which it received while it grew, the nurture it got from reading, study, example, the encouragement it gathered from self- recognition and recognition from the outside at each stage of its development: when we know all these details, then we know why the man was ready when his opportunity came. We should expect Edison’s surroundings and atmosphere to have the largest share in discovering him to himself and to the world; and we should expect him to live and die undiscovered in a land where an inventor could find no comradeship, no sympathy, no ambition-rousing atmosphere of recognition and applause—Dahomey, for instance. Dahomey could not find an Edison out; in Dahomey an Edison could not find himself out. Broadly speaking, genius is not born with sight, but blind; and it is not itself that opens its eyes, but the subtle influences of a myriad of stimulating exterior circumstances.
We all know this to be not a guess, but a mere commonplace fact, a truism. Lorraine was Joan of Arc’s Dahomey. And there the Riddle confronts us. We can understand how she could be born with military genius, with leonine courage, with incomparable fortitude, with a mind which was in several particulars a prodigy—a mind which included among its specialties the lawyer’s gift of detecting traps laid by the adversary in cunning and treacherous arrangements of seemingly innocent words, the orator’s gift of eloquence, the advocate’s gift of presenting a case in clear and compact form, the judge’s gift of sorting and weighing evidence, and finally, something recognizable as more than a mere trace of the states- man’s gift of understanding a political situation and how to make profitable use of such opportunities as it offers; we can comprehend how she could be born with these great qualities, but we cannot comprehend how they became immediately usable and effective without the developing forces of a sympathetic atmosphere and the training which comes of teaching, study, practice—years of practice,—and the crowning and perfecting help of a thousand mistakes. We can understand how the possibilities of the future perfect peach are all lying hid in the humble bitter-almond, but we cannot conceive of the peach springing directly from the almond without the intervening long seasons of patient cultivation and development. Out of a cattle-pasturing peasant village lost in the remotenesses of an unvisited wilderness and atrophied with ages of stupefaction and ignorance we cannot see a Joan of Arc issue equipped to the last detail for her amazing career and hope to be able to explain the riddle of it, labor at it as we may.
It is beyond us. All the rules fail in this girl’s case. In the world’s history she stands alone—quite alone. Others have been great in their first public exhibitions of generalship, valor, legal talent, diplomacy, fortitude; but always their previous years and associations had been in a larger or smaller degree a preparation for these things. There have been no exceptions to the rule. But Joan was competent in a law case at sixteen without ever having seen a law book or a court-house before; she had no training in soldiership and no associations with it, yet she was a competent general in her first campaign; she was brave in her first battle, yet her courage had had no education—not even the education which a boy’s courage gets from never-ceasing reminders that it is not permissible in a boy to be a coward, but only in a girl; friendless, alone, ignorant, in the blossom of her youth, she sat week after week, a prisoner in chains, before her assemblage of judges, enemies hunting her to her death, the ablest minds in France, and answered them out of an untaught wisdom which overmatched their learning, baffled their tricks and treacheries with a native sagacity which compelled their wonder, and scored every day a victory against these incredible odds and camped unchallenged on the field. In the history of the human intellect, untrained, inexperienced, and using only its birthright equipment of untried capacities, there is nothing which approaches this. Joan of Arc stands alone, and must continue to stand alone, by reason of the unfellowed fact that in the things wherein she was great she was so without shade or suggestion of help from preparatory teaching, practice, environment, or experience. There is no one to compare her with, none to measure her by; for all others among the illustrious grew towards their high place in an atmosphere and surroundings which discovered their gift to them and nourished it and promoted it, intentionally or unconsciously. There have been other young generals, but they were not girls; young generals, but they had been soldiers before they were generals: she began as a general; she commanded the first army she ever saw; she led it from victory to victory, and never lost a battle with it; there have been young commanders-in-chief, but none so young as she: she is the only soldier in history who has held the supreme command of a nation’s armies at the age of seventeen.
Her history has still another feature which sets her apart and leaves her without fellow or competitor: there have been many uninspired prophets, but she was the only one who ever ventured the daring detail of naming, along with a foretold event, the event’s precise nature, the special time-limit within which it would occur, and the place—and scored fulfilment. At Vaucouleurs she said she must go to the King and be made his general, and break the English power, and crown her sovereign—“at Rheims.” It all happened. It was all to happen “next year”—and it did. She foretold her first wound and its character and date a month in advance, and the prophecy was recorded in a public record-book three weeks in advance. She repeated it the morning of the date named, and it was fulfilled before night. At Tours she foretold the limit of her military career—saying it would end in one year from the time of its utterance—and she was right. She foretold her martyrdom—using that word, and naming a time three months away—and again she was right. At a time when France seemed hopelessly and permanently in the hands of the English she twice asserted in her prison before her judges that within seven years the English would meet with a mightier disaster than had been the fall of Orleans: it happened within five—the fall of Paris. Other prophecies of hers came true, both as to the event named and the time-limit prescribed.
She was deeply religious, and believed that she had daily speech with angels; that she saw them face to face, and that they counselled her, comforted and heartened her, and brought commands to her direct from God. She had a childlike faith in the heavenly origin of her apparitions and her Voices, and not any threat of any form of death was able to frighten it out of her loyal heart. She was a beautiful and simple and lovable character. In the records of the Trials this comes out in clear and shining detail. She was gentle and winning and affectionate; she loved her home and friends and her village life; she was miserable in the presence of pain and suffering; she was full of compassion: on the field of her most splendid victory she forgot her triumphs to hold in her lap the head of a dying enemy and comfort his passing spirit with pitying words; in an age when it was common to slaughter prisoners she stood dauntless between hers and harm, and saved them alive; she was forgiving, generous, unselfish, magnanimous; she was pure from all spot or stain of baseness. And always she was a girl; and dear and worshipful, as is meet for that estate: when she fell wounded, the first time, she was frightened, and cried when she saw her blood gushing from her breast; but she was Joan of Arc! and when presently she found that her generals were sounding the retreat, she staggered to her feet and led the assault again and took that place by storm.
There is no blemish in that rounded and beautiful character.
How strange it is!—that almost invariably the artist remembers only one detail—one minor and meaningless detail of the personality of Joan of Arc: to wit, that she was a peasant girl—and forgets all the rest; and so he paints her as a strapping middle-aged fishwoman, with costume to match, and in her face the spirituality of a ham. He is slave to his one idea, and forgets to observe that the supremely great souls are never lodged in gross bodies. No brawn, no muscle, could endure the work that their bodies must do; they do their miracles by the spirit, which has fifty times the strength and staying power of brawn and muscle. The Napoleons are little, not big; and they work twenty hours in the twenty-four, and come up fresh, while the big soldiers with the little hearts faint around them with fatigue. We know what Joan of Arc was like, without asking—merely by what she did. The artist should paint her spirit—then he could not fail to paint her body aright. She would rise before us, then, a vision to win us, not repel: a lithe young slender figure, instinct with “the unbought grace of youth,” dear and bonny and lovable, the face beautiful, and transfigured with the light of that lustrous intellect and the fires of that unquenchable spirit.
Taking into account, as I have suggested before, all the circumstances—her origin, youth, sex, illiteracy, early environment, and the obstructing conditions under which she exploited her high gifts and made her conquests in the field and before the courts that tried her for her life,—she is easily and by far the most extraordinary person the human race has ever produced.
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Mark Twain short stories
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Twain, Mark
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Multatuli
(1820-1887)
Ideën (7 delen, 1862-1877)
Idee Nr. 41
Ik leg me toe op ‘t schryven van levend Hollands. Maar ik heb schoolgegaan.
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: DICTIONARY OF IDEAS, Multatuli, Multatuli
Extra City is to the right, in the Tulpstraat
Antwerp
Antwerp
Antwerp
Waalse en Vlaamse Kaai
Kati Heck – Stella Lohaus
Antwerp, Extra City + Galleries
It felt good to be in Antwerp. There were interesting shows at Extra City and at the Galleries. This time Tim Van Laere, Stella Lohaus, van der Mieden, Zwajcer and Zeno X. Here is a LINK to all the art spaces. I will show you some pictures of the art and the hike from the Waalse Kaai to the Tulpstraat and back.
Anton K. December 2010
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Anton K. Photos & Observations, Exhibition Archive
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Hank Denmore
Moord in lichtdruk
achtentwintig
Broadway, West 145th Street
Nadat Evelyne Tino had verlaten was deze volop bezig met het regelen van de begrafenis van Arabella. Hij had menigmaal mensen naar het hiernamaals geholpen en ze in een brugpijler in aanbouw of in een rivier laten dumpen, maar dat een normale begrafenis zoveel werk met zich mee bracht had hij nooit gedacht. Eerst de identificatie in het mortuarium, iemand met een zwak hart zou dat nooit overleven. Dan de massa’s formulieren die hij moest invullen. Het leek wel dat de ambtenarij het hem kwalijk nam dat Arabella uit de registers geschreven moest worden. Welke soort bloemen hij in de rouwkamer wilde hebben, hoeveel gasten hij dacht te krijgen, koffie en broodjes met kaas of hotelcake? Vragen, vragen en nog eens vragen. In de Hudson dumpen was toch sneller en… vooral goedkoper.
Toen de tekst voor de rouwkaarten samengesteld was en de benodigde volgauto’s en kransen waren besteld kon hij zich even ontspannen. Languit in zijn blauwleren bureaustoel hangend overdacht hij de gebeurtenissen van die dag. Was het werkelijk toeval dat die griet een privé-detective was? Had Arabella echt niets meer gezegd, of toch wel? Waarom kwam die Steinbruch hem vertellen wat er was gebeurd? Ze kon toch op haar vingers natellen dat dit de politie zou doen. Niemand deed zoiets, zoveel moeite doen en zo’n leuke boodschap was het niet. Nee, als hij daar langer over nadacht kon dat bezoek alleen maar betekenen dat ze iets zocht. Hij zou ze eens laten natrekken of ze eens uitnodigen voor een nadere kennismaking. De Ford was clean, daarvoor hoefde hij niet bang te zijn. Het was iets anders, had Arabella haar dan toch iets verteld? Je weet maar nooit, mensen die hun einde voelen naderen willen dikwijls schoon schip maken. Hij betrok Arabella wel nooit bij zijn zaken maar misschien had ze iets opgevangen. Wat was er onlangs gebeurd? Hij dacht lange tijd na maar kon niets bedenken wat gevaarlijk voor hem kon zijn en waar Arabella getuige van was geweest. Geen bezoeker en ook geen telefoongesprek.
Toen knipte hij met zijn vingers. Hij had wel door de telefoon met Vincente over die verdomde papieren gesproken, toen zat ze op zijn schoot. Maar zelfs al zou ze dat verteld hebben, dan kon geen mens daar iets van maken. Hij riep om zijn manager Bernardo en zei deze dat Vincente Doc en Knife moest sturen en wel meteen.
Na een kwartiertje kwamen de twee na een haastig klopje op de deur de kamer binnen en bleven eerbiedig staan. Een keer had Knife het gewaagd om te gaan zitten zonder toestemming van Tino te hebben gekregen. Hij werd weer bleek toen hij daar aan dacht.
Tino knikte naar de stoelen en gaf een uitvoerig signalement van Evelyne. Hij gaf ze opdracht om haar te gaan volgen, maar zonder haar aan te spreken. Op een kladblaadje schreef hij het adres van haar kantoor en gaf dit aan Doc, de slimste van de twee. Nogmaals zei hij dat er geen haar van de detective gekrenkt mocht worden. De twee stapten in de Ford Mustang en gingen op weg naar Evelyne’s kantoor.
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Hank Denmore: Moord in lichtdruk
kempis.nl poetry magazine
(wordt vervolgd)
More in: -Moord in lichtdruk
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A case of identity:
Katherine
jef van kempen 2010
fleursdumal.nl magazine
► more on website museum of lost concepts
More in: Jef van Kempen Photos & Drawings, Photography
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Lola Ridge
(1873-1941)
DEDICATION
I would be a torch unto your hand,
A lamp upon your forehead, Labor,
In the wild darkness before the Dawn
That I shall never see…
We shall advance together, my Beloved,
Awaiting the mighty ushering…
Together we shall make the last grand charge
And ride with gorgeous Death
With all her spangles on
And cymbals clashing…
And you shall rush on exultant as I fall–
Scattering a brief fire about your feet…
Let it be so…
Better–while life is quick
And every pain immense and joy supreme,
And all I have and am
Flames upward to the dream…
Than like a taper forgotten in the dawn,
Burning out the wick.
FACES
A late snow beats
With cold white fists upon the tenements–
Hurriedly drawing blinds and shutters,
Like tall old slatterns
Pulling aprons about their heads.
Lights slanting out of Mott Street
Gibber out,
Or dribble through bar-room slits,
Anonymous shapes
Conniving behind shuttered panes
Caper and disappear…
Where the Bowery
Is throbbing like a fistula
Back of her ice-scabbed fronts.
Livid faces
Glimmer in furtive doorways,
Or spill out of the black pockets of alleys,
Smears of faces like muddied beads,
Making a ghastly rosary
The night mumbles over
And the snow with its devilish and silken whisper…
Patrolling arcs
Blowing shrill blasts over the Bread Line
Stalk them as they pass,
Silent as though accouched of the darkness,
And the wind noses among them,
Like a skunk
That roots about the heart…
Colder:
And the Elevated slams upon the silence
Like a ponderous door.
Then all is still again,
Save for the wind fumbling over
The emptily swaying faces–
The wind rummaging
Like an old Jew…
Faces in glimmering rows…
(No sign of the abject life–
Not even a blasphemy…)
But the spindle legs keep time
To a limping rhythm,
And the shadows twitch upon the snow
Convulsively–
As though death played
With some ungainly dolls.
LOLA RIDGE POETRY
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive Q-R, Ridge, Lola
Catherine Pozzi
(1884-1934)
Scopolamine
Le vin qui coule dans ma veine
A noyé mon coeur et l’entraîne
Et je naviguerai le ciel
A bord d’un coeur sans capitaine
Où l’oubli fond comme du miel.
Mon coeur est un astre apparu
Qui nage au divin nonpareil.
Dérive, étrange devenu!
O voyage vers le Soleil—
Un son nouvel et continu
Est la trame de ton sommeil.
Mon coeur a quitté mon histoire
Adieu Forme je ne sens plus
Je suis sauvé je suis perdu
Je me cherche dans l’inconnu
Un nom libre de la mémoire.
Catherine Pozzi poésie
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive O-P, Pozzi, Catherine
Street poetry: Dames en heren, eet meer appels en peren !
photo © jef van kempen 2010
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Jef van Kempen Photos & Drawings, Kempen, Jef van, Photography, Street Art
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William Shakespeare
(1564-1616)
THE SONNETS
60
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end,
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned,
Crooked eclipses ‘gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.
And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
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kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: -Shakespeare Sonnets
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