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Ton van Reen: Katapult, de ondergang van Amsterdam (06)
`Ik begrijp er geen barst van’, zei Bas hoofdschuddend. `Toen de eerste witte muizen hier arriveerden, was je zelf een en al vriendelijkheid. Ik kan me nog herinneren hoe jullie met z’n allen hun eerste nest bewonderden.’
`Dat klopt’, gaf Kaspar toe. `En tegen hun tweede nest had ik ook niks. Maar nu ze met steeds meer zijn, eisen ze een steeds groter deel van de kaas op. Als het zo doorgaat, groeien ze ons binnen de kortst mogelijke tijd boven het hoofd.’
`Je zou eerder medelijden met míj moeten hebben’, zei Bas. `Ik moet jullie allemaal aan het bikken houden. Elke week tien hele kazen. En uit dank vreten jullie het hout uit de deuren en de stoppen uit de bierleidingen. En alsof dat nog niet het ergste is, ligt er voortdurend een horde muizen op de loer bij de keuken. Zelf gap je het vlees van de broodjes. Hoe vaak heb ik je al gezegd dat ik mijn klanten niet wil bedienen met keutels op het bord. Ik heb mijn kont nog niet gedraaid of de muizen dansen op het aanrecht en kraken de ijskast. Ik weet niet of ik op deze manier de zaak nog lang kan openhouden. Dat naait maar door. Dat fokt maar raak. Elke zes weken een nest per paar.’
`Je bedoelt die witten’, zei Kaspar. `In elke kast waar je kijkt en in elke hoek liggen ze te rotzooien. Ze neuken op de tafeltjes, dat soort.’
`Ze voelen zich niet geremd door de aanwezigheid van anderen’, zei Bas. `Wat dat betreft zijn die witte muizen heel wat minder hypocriet dan jullie. Al heb jij toch ook uitstekend je best gedaan. Er rennen hier meer dan honderd zwarte muizen rond. Jij hebt een heel volk gesticht. Ik durf er niet aan te denken hoe dit aardige paradijs eruit zal zien als we een paar jaar verder zijn. Eigenlijk zou ik jullie de pil moeten geven.’
Kaspar keek hem nijdig aan, alsof hij wilde zeggen: waar bemoei jij je als buitenstaander mee.
`Ik moet toegeven’, zei hij nors, terwijl hij zijn vette snorharen reinigde, `dat er vernielers onder ons zitten. Maar dan hoef je nog niet direct met overdreven maatregelen te komen. Je moet het kwaad aanpakken waar het is. Het ligt niet aan ons, de zwarte muizen. Het zijn de witten. Moet je zien hoe ze rond de radio staan te springen. De hele dag gaat dat gejengel door. Van mij mag je ze er onmiddellijk uitlazeren.’
`Herenee’, riep Bas uit. `En ik dacht nog wel dat jullie muizen zo verdraagzaam waren. Zo anders dan mensen.’
`Hoe anders? Je bedoelt alleen kleiner.’
Ton van Reen: Katapult (06)
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Ton van Reen: Katapult, de ondergang van Amsterdam (05)
Kaspar zag dat een tiental witte muizen, zoals de laatste tijd gewoonte was geworden, tegen zijn zin aan de radio peuterde. Net zo lang tot ze een swingend muziekje hadden gevonden om op te dansen. Kaspar vond dat allemaal maar niks, al wist hij niet wat hij ertegen kon doen. Als het aan hem lag, mocht de bliksem in de radio slaan. Vroeger, toen die witten er nog niet waren, hadden ze het hier heel wat rustiger gehad. Toen kon je hier nog verstaanbaar praten. Tegenwoordig moest je steeds harder over de pop- en de schopmuziek heen schreeuwen. Het was allemaal de schuld van de witte muizen. Die hielden alleen van keiharde muziek en swing. Ze staken hun poten vol zilveren ringen, omdat ze graag pronkten met alles wat schitterde, en joegen ongegeneerd achter elk muizenvrouwtje aan, of ‘t zwart of wit was. Nee, van die witte muizen moest Kaspar niet veel hebben.
`Jullie muizen denken dat het hier altijd kermis is’, zei Bas, een paar glazen bier tappend.
`Je had het over ons?’ vroeg Kaspar. Hij rechtte zijn rug, want hij hoorde aan het klagerige toontje van Bas dat hij weer wat te kankeren had.
`Toen ik jou als eerste muis door de kroeg zag dartelen, dat is al weer een jaar of wat geleden, dacht ik: eigenlijk best een lief beestje. Zo zacht als een kat, zo aanhankelijk als een hond en zo klein dat je er geen omkijken naar hebt.’
`Ik ben blij dat je zo positief over me denkt’, zei Kaspar tevreden.
`En de manier waarop jij mijn hart hebt gestolen’, zei Bas schamper. `Vooral toen jij je liefdesdansje deed voor het tweede muisje dat hier binnenglipte. En er direct bovenop sprong. Je was een ongeduldige jongen hoor. Ik dacht: laat ze maar lekker hun gang gaan, als ze zich aan mij en de bezoekers niet storen.’
`Jij vlegel’, riep Kaspar verontwaardigd uit. `Wat jij over mij rondvertelt. Net of ik hier op de vloer heb liggen neuken. Straks vertel je nog dat alle zwarte muizen hoerenjagers zijn.’
`Wind je niet op’, suste Bas. `Ik wist niet dat jij zo preuts was geworden en dat je nu wilt vergeten dat je ooit jong bent geweest. En dat je dat ook heel goed hebt laten merken.’
`Stil toch’, zei Kaspar gegriefd. `Iedereen die oren heeft die hoort het. Ik wil niet dat dit soort verhaaltjes over mij of over andere zwarte muizen wordt verteld. Wij zijn niet als die witte muizen. Die rotzooien maar wat aan. Die mogen van jou alles.’
`Jullie mogen niks minder dan zij. Ik heb geen moment gemerkt dat ze meer kwaad deden dan de zwarte muizen. Alleen leven ze intenser dan jullie. Dat stoort jou.’
`Je zou toch beter op hen moeten letten’, zei Kaspar. `Het zijn jongens met een grote bek. Schone schijn. Ze belazeren óns ook. Ze pikken de beste stukken van de kaas en als je er wat van zegt, dan roepen ze, swing it out man, take your chance.’
Ton van Reen: Katapult (05)
fleursdumal.nl magazine
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Ton van Reen: Katapult, de ondergang van Amsterdam (04)
Muizenissen
Bas, de kroegbaas van De Engelbewaarder, een net café aan de Kloveniersburgwal, maakte zich ernstige zorgen. De muizen die in zijn zaak huisden, bezorgden hem de laatste tijd heel wat last. Sommige brutaaltjes moest hij scherp in de gaten houden. Hij had met het muizencollectief afgesproken dat ze in zijn zaak mochten huizen, mits ze niet meer beschadigden dan per se voor hun leefwijze nodig was. Toch waren er exemplaren die keer op keer weer aan de kast van de pianola zaten te knabbelen, of hun tandjes scherpten aan de stoelpoten. Rakkers die naar niemand wilden luisteren. Hoe Bas zijn hersens ook pijnigde, hij kon geen afdoende middel verzinnen om de muizen hun schandelijke vernielzucht af te leren. Met lede ogen moest hij aanzien hoe ze de inrichting van zijn zaak langzaam maar zeker naar de knoppen hielpen. En dat was blijkbaar nog niet genoeg, want nog net zag Bas hoe Kaspar, de dikke zwarte muizenkoning, een stuk worst uit de broodjeskast pikte en met de buit in zijn bek op de bar sprong.
Kaspar vrat zijn pens vol en boerde. Hij was tevreden. De worst smaakte hem goed. Hij ging op zijn hurken zitten, zijn rug tegen de koele wand van de bierpomp, streelde vergenoegd zijn dikke buik en keek het café rond. Uit de hoogte. Een koning die vanaf zijn balkon neerkeek op zijn minderen. Die macht kon Kaspar zich veroorloven. Tenslotte was hij de stamvader van de wel meer dan honderd zwarte muizen die de holen en kieren in alle vertrekken van De Engelbewaarder bevolkten. De heersende kliek, want de witte muizen waren hier nog maar pas gearriveerd en ze waren nog met weinig.
De muizen leefden met het gebeuren in het café mee. Per slot van rekening was het café, van voor- tot achterdeur, hun wereld. Van wat zich allemaal nog achter de deuren afspeelde, hadden ze geen flauw idee. Met het leven op straat bemoeiden ze zich liever niet. Enkelen onder hen waagden zich wel eens overmoedig naar buiten. Dat waren zij die het helemaal niet meer aardig vonden met zovelen op zo’n kleine plek te leven. En ook de minst gewaardeerden of de meest geplaagden van de groep wilden er wel eens vandoor. Die hoopten daarbuiten een zachter leven aan te treffen, maar ze kwamen meestal geschrokken terug. Voor hen lag er achter die deuren een wereld vol venijn, waar ze met hun muizenstreken geen vat op kregen. Kwam je als muis binnen het bereik van ratten of katten, of van kolonies andere muizen, dan was je graag terug in De Engelbewaarder. Dan nam je het maar voor lief dat je soortgenoten je voor de gek hielden omdat je huid voor een zwarte muis wat grijs was gebleven. Of je bleef gelaten de verschoppeling omdat je wat kleintjes was uitgevallen.
wordt vervolgd
Ton van Reen: Katapult (04)
fleursdumal.nl magazine
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Ton van Reen: Katapult, de ondergang van Amsterdam (03)
`Hé, waar moet jij zo haastig naartoe?’ riep David.
Crazy hoorde en zag hem niet. Hij leek vastbesloten door te rennen tot hij erbij zou neervallen. Teleurgesteld keek David hem na. Crazy Horse gedroeg zich weer zoals men van hem kon verwachten, onbesuisd en recht op het doel af.
Crazy was zijn grote vriend. David zocht hem vaak op, op zijn zolderkamer in de Goudsbloemstraat, meestal als hij even tot zichzelf wilde komen. De rust van het rommelige kamertje beviel hem, maar het was vooral Crazy zelf die hem trok. Crazy had aandacht voor zijn problemen. Vanaf het moment dat ze elkaar hadden leren kennen, klikte het. Eigenlijk had hij de student ontmoet door zijn zus Mireille, met wie Crazy al jaren scharrelde. Ze waren wel gek op elkaar, die twee, maar ze leidden allebei een geheel eigen leven, zodat niemand wist hoe het er met hun verhouding voor stond. Waarschijnlijk wisten ze dat zelf ook niet.
David voelde een weeë druk in zijn maag, iets wat het midden hield tussen misselijkheid en honger. Om de woede die hij in zich voelde opkomen te onderdrukken, pakte hij zijn katapult, haalde een gladde steen uit zijn zak en legde aan op de bovenste verdieping van hotel Marriott. Met een droge knal brak een van de grootste ruiten. Nog een drietal andere ruiten moest het ontgelden voordat David het kokende gevoel in zijn bloed kwijt was.
Door het Vondelpark ging hij op weg naar huis. Normaal liepen er altijd veel mensen; nu was het er stil. Alleen een oud vrouwtje liep rillend voor hem uit. Er vloog een klein vogeltje boven haar kruin, een winterkoninkje dat in de stad was verdwaald en afging op de piepgeluidjes die uit de keel van het vrouwtje kwamen, alsof er een rat in zat. David kende haar. Ze liep hier vaak rond. In het voorbijgaan wilde hij haar goedendag zeggen. Hij durfde het niet. Hij had nooit iemand iets tegen haar horen zeggen. Altijd liep iedereen haar voorbij, alsof ze er gewoon niet was. Haar ogen stonden vreemd. Ze keek langs iedereen heen.
In het park zag hij de eerste voorbodes van de lente: zwerverstypen met een gitaar in het gras, nog zo jong dat ze zeker van huis waren weggelopen. Om vrij te zijn. Ze aten friet uit kartonnen schaaltjes, zonder zich af te vragen of dat op reis wel de gezondste voeding was. Ook dat het gras nog klam was, leek hun niet te hinderen. Ze waren gelukkig. God wist wat ze nog allemaal aan goeds van de stad meenden te mogen verwachten, gelokt door de fabeltjes die erover werden verteld. Maar de stad was van beton en de mensen die er woonden waren van dezelfde hardheid.
wordt vervolgd
Ton van Reen: Katapult (03)
fleursdumal.nl magazine
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Ton van Reen: Katapult, de ondergang van Amsterdam (02)
Met de lift ging David naar beneden. Zonder moeilijkheden kwam hij buiten. De trucjes die hij wel eens moest gebruiken als er niemand in de hal was en de portier alle aandacht op hem kon richten, mocht hij deze keer vergeten. De man werd bestormd door tientallen gasten die zich waren rotgeschrokken van het geweld dat zo plotseling de stad had overvallen.
Hij rende naar het Leidseplein, waar zich veel volk verzameld had rond de puinhoop van het eens zo chique restaurant. Hij worstelde zich door de samengepakte mensen naar voren. Aangekomen in de voorste rij keek hij of hij zijn vader bij de brandweerlieden zag, maar tussen de mannen herkende hij hem niet. Met hun gasmaskers op en in hun pakken van asbest zagen ze eruit als robots.
Links en rechts hoorde hij zeggen dat men de hoop had opgegeven nog overlevenden uit de puinhopen te halen. De rookontwikkeling was in korte tijd zo hevig geweest dat iedereen die niet was doodgedrukt onder het puin, was gestikt. De brandweer staakte het voorzichtig zoeken met pikhaken en koevoeten en zette bulldozers in die het puin met grote bakken tegelijk aan de kant schoven.
Uit de steen- en ashopen werden lichamen opgegraven. Er ging een zucht van ontroering door de menigte toen een frêle jong meisje tevoorschijn werd gehaald, in een roze jurk die slechts aan de zoom was aangetast door het vuur. Ze leek te slapen. Op haar gezicht was verbazing te lezen over de dood waarop ze nog lang niet had gerekend. Het werd stil bij het zien van twee dode geliefden, in een krampachtige omarming, vastbesloten elkaar nooit meer los te laten. Daar hielden de redders geen rekening mee. Ze braken de verstrakte armen open om de slachtoffers ieder apart op een brancard te kunnen leggen. Er werd een oude man geborgen, in een fluwelen pak waarin hij ooit heel chic was geweest: een verlopen kunstenaar met een bedroefd gezicht waarop te lezen stond dat de dood hem welkom was. Soms werden enkele lichamen tegelijk gevonden. Mensen die in hun verscheidenheid elkaar vreemd waren geweest, maar die in hun laatste ogenblikken bescherming bij elkaar hadden gezocht. Sommigen half verkoold. Anderen naar het leek nog helemaal gaaf, maar met verkrampte gezichten en open monden waaruit de laatste schreeuw niet kon ontsnappen, vaak het puin omarmend dat hun borst had ingedrukt. Zo nu en dan kwam er beroering onder het volk als men een van de doden meende te herkennen. Een filmster. Een televisiepresentator. Een schrijver. Was het Harry Mulisch zelf, of was het zijn dubbelganger die elke dag, van de vroege ochtend tot de late avond, bij Americain zat?
David voelde zich beroerd bij het zien van al deze ellende. Hij wilde weg. In het gedrang kroop hij terug. Dat ging maar moeizaam. De aangroeiende menigte stuwde iedereen vooruit. De eerste rijen stonden al zo dicht bij de puinhopen dat de mensen de brandweerlieden het werk haast onmogelijk maakten.
David verliet de plek. Even overwoog hij naar de brandende Beurs te gaan kijken, om te zien hoe geld fikte. Hij deed het niet. Hij had het altijd al een afschuwelijk gebouw gevonden en zelfs in het vuur kon het niet anders dan lelijk zijn. Bovendien had hij zijn vader, die daar als brandweerman soms preventieve dienst had, vaak horen zeggen dat hij de pest had aan het volk dat daar in en uit liep. Mannen in nette pakken die altijd aan de kant van de macht stonden omdat dat de kant van het geld was.
Plotseling zag hij Crazy uit een steeg tevoorschijn komen. Crazy had zijn schitterende naam te danken aan iemand die ooit op de gedachte was gekomen `Crazy Horse’ naar hem te roepen vanwege zijn intrieste paardenogen en zijn lange voortanden. Hij leek haast te hebben en rende als een gek over de weg.
Ton van Reen: Katapult (02)
fleursdumal.nl magazine
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Ton van Reen: Katapult, de ondergang van Amsterdam (01)
Brandbommen
David Meyer, elf jaar, deed een steen in de houder van zijn katapult en mikte op de zon. Met een hevige knal, als van brekend glas, spatten grote delen van de vurige bal en vielen als brandbommen op de stad.
Een stuk zo groot als een wagenrad sloeg in bij café-restaurant Americain aan het Leidseplein. De explosie drukte de muren in. In korte tijd brandde het hotel als een fakkel. Het vuur vond gretig voedsel in het kurkdroge houtwerk, het pluche van de salons en de garderobes van de in het hotel verblijvende sterren uit de show- en de televisiebusiness. Een schroeiend gordijn van rook en de stank van verbrand vlees stegen op uit de loeiende vlammen.
Vanaf zijn post op het dak van hotel Marriott had David een weids uitzicht over het hele zootje dat Amsterdam heette. Her en der duidelijk herkenbare punten: het stadhuis, de Bijenkorf, het hoekige gebouw van de Shell met zijn blinde muren, de fabrieken in Noord die hun gifgele rook over de stad uitbliezen, het IJ, schepen in de dokken staken hun enorme rompen onfatsoenlijk hoog boven het water uit. Rond de stad de gordel van betondorpen. Het massief van de Bijlmer. Meer naar het noorden een grijze vlakte van water, weilanden en mist.
David kon vaststellen dat het Beursgebouw en de Vondelkerk waren getroffen. Ook steeg een dikke kolom rook op uit de buurt van de stadskwekerij Frankendael: misschien waren ze er alleen maar bezig met het opstoken van rommel. Hier en daar waren nog een paar kleinere vuurhaarden. David kon ze niet lokaliseren achter de wirwar van oude daken en nieuwe gebouwen.
Hij zat op de rand van de schoorsteen en spuwde in de rookpijp. Het dak van het Marriott was zijn lievelingsplek. Hij had er alle rust. Buiten hem was er nooit iemand, alleen de duiven die in de roosters nestelden. Van die dieren had hij geen last, al vond hij ze onuitstaanbare beesten die weinig meer met echte duiven gemeen hadden. Verpest door het stadsleven waren ze verworden tot de varkens onder de vogels. Ze vraten zich zo vol dat ze niet veel meer dan apathisch voor zich uit konden kijken. En als ze er eens op uitgevlogen waren, om hun eeuwige honger te stillen, dan hadden ze er de grootste moeite mee weer tot op het dak te vliegen, zo plomp en zwaar waren ze.
De branden veroorzaakten paniek in de stad. Nieuwsgierigheid maakte zich van de mensen meester. In drommen haastten ze zich naar de brandhaarden. Niemand wilde iets van de sensatie missen. Brandweerwagens en ambulances scheurden met loeiende sirenes door de stad. Politieauto’s jankten rond door de volslagen wanorde. Het was allemaal zo enerverend dat zelfs de vette duiven verbaasd begonnen te koeren nu de stad steeds meer naar het land rook.
David wilde van dichtbij getuige zijn van het reddingswerk. Kwam hij altijd ongezien boven via de brandladder, naar beneden ging hij brutaalweg met de lift.
Hij opende een luchtrooster, klom tussen de verwarmingsbuizen door en stond oog in oog met de hydraulische machine van de lift. Via het deurgat van een bergkast bereikte hij de hoogste verdieping. Een paar kamermeisjes waren bezig wasgoed in zakken te proppen. Ze keken niet eens op toen ze hem zagen. Ze kenden hem. Ze wisten niet anders of hij hoorde bij het hotel. Het kwam nooit in hun hersens op zich af te vragen waar hij vandaan kwam en bij wie hij dan wel hoorde.
Ton van Reen: Katapult (01)
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: - Katapult, de ondergang van Amsterdam, Reen, Ton van
De sprookjesachtige roman KATAPULT, DE ONDERGANG VAN AMSTERDAM speelt in het Amsterdam van de jaren zeventig van de vorige eeuw, de tijd waarin de geest van de provo’s, de kabouters en van flowerpower nog in de stad hing, maar de consumptiemaatschappij haar tentakels begon uit te slaan. Het klootjesvolk dat zo door de provo’s was verguisd sloeg terug en voedde haar kinderen op tot agressieve hooligans. En de mensen lieten zich vrijwillig knechten door banken en investeerders die de volksclub Ajax en het Stedelijk Museum overnamen en de liberale maatschappij terugbrachten die verantwoordelijk was voor de ellende van de jaren dertig van de vorige eeuw. Het nieuwe denken van volkse filosofen als Roel van Duijn en Robert Jasper Grootveld verloor terrein. De rijken werden weer rijker en het resultaat is dat er in de huidige tijd in alle stadswijken voedselbanken zijn om de hongerigen te voeden. Het Leger des Heils is een van de weinige instituten die zich nog bekommert om de mensen die financieel uitgemolken en dakloos zijn of de race tegen de data die ons controleren hebben verloren.
In het jaar waarin deze roman speelt was er nog hoop, ook al toont het verhaal niet het Amsterdam van de glamour maar het Amsterdam dat aan de rand staat van de verloedering. KATAPULT, DE ONDERGANG VAN AMSTERDAM is het verhaal van een dag uit het leven van een kleine groep mensen, een familie en hun vrienden, die in een grote stad toch in een uiterst kleine kring blijken te leven. Het lijkt dat ze ver staan van de boze en wonderlijke rampen die zich in de stad voltrekken en die ze niet kunnen benoemen, maar feitelijk ondervinden ze alle gebeurtenissen aan hun lijf. Hún ondergang is het begin van de ondergang van de stad.
Wat er in KATAPULT gebeurt, speelt zich alleen af in zwarte sprookjes, maar vaak hebben sprookjes meer met de werkelijkheid gemeen dan de exacte verslagen van gebeurtenissen. Wie denkt dat het onmogelijk is om met een katapult een brandende scherf van de zon te schieten, om zo hotel-restaurant AMERICAN in de fik te zetten, moet dit boek maar niet lezen. KATAPULT, DE ONDERGANG VAN AMSTERDAM is vijfenveertig jaar geleden geschreven. Veel in Amsterdam lijkt nu nog hetzelfde, maar dat is schijn. Wie met dit boek door de stad loopt en de sporen zoekt van het Amsterdam van toen, ziet dat de mooie gevels er nog zijn en worden gefotografeerd door hordes toeristen uit de hele wereld, maar ook dat achter de fraaie gevels heel veel is weggehaald. Nu zijn er supermarkten gevestigd en kantoren van advocaten, multinationals en brievenbusmaatschappijen die de stad en Nederland misbruiken om belasting te ontduiken. De gezinnen zoals die van Albert Meyer zijn grotendeels verdreven naar de Bijlmer, Purmerend en Almere.
Ook café DE ENGELBEWAARDER aan de Kloveniersburgwal is er niet meer. Kastelein Bas, in wie de toenmalige uitbater en boekenliefhebber Bas Lubberhuizen herkend kan worden, leeft nog, maar de redacteuren van Vrij Nederland die er dagelijks hun kelkjes leeg dronken, zoals Martin van Amerongen en Joop van Tijn, zijn al jaren heen. Net als Ischa Meier die er vaak kwam met zijn vrouwen, minnaressen en favoriete hoertjes en een zak vol boeken waarvan hij de flapteksten las. Ook stamklant Robert Jasper Grootveld, die model stond voor Crazy Horse is er niet meer, net als Simon Vinkenoog, de magiër van het vrije woord. Wel zijn gelijkgestemde filosofen als Roel van Duin en Ruud Schimmelpenninck nog onder ons, maar worden hun ideeën nauwelijks nog begrepen. Ook café oud Mokum is verdwenen, met stamklanten en al.
In de gevoelswereld van schrijver Ton van Reen spelen de zelfgenoegzame leden van de georganiseerde samenleving een uiterst sinistere rol. Wreedheid, vreemdelingenhaat en bloeddorst liggen achter hun oppervlakkige en zo fatsoenlijk lijkende gedrag voortdurend op de loer. De helden van Ton van Reen behoren zonder uitzondering tot de kwetsbaren en de slachtoffers: eenzame kinderen, hoeren, landlopers, kermisgasten en zonderlingen, mensen die echter een warmer hart hebben dan de directeuren van de Rabobank en de Tweede Kamerleden van de VVD.
Over de boeken van Ton van Reen schreef Aad Nuis in de Haagse Post: ‘Hij schrijft eigenlijk steeds sprookjes, waarbij de toon onverhoeds kan omslaan van Andersen op zijn charmanst in Grimm op zijn gruwelijkst.’ Reinjan Mulder schreef in NRC-Handelsblad: ‘Het proza van Ton van Reen is mooi als poëzie.’ En Gerrit Krol schreef in dezelfde krant: ‘Ton van Reen schrijft leerboeken voor schrijvers.’
De laatste druk van dit boek verscheen in VERZAMELD WERK deel 1, Uitgeverij De Geus isbn 978 90 445 1351 6
Volgende week dinsdag starten we in dit digitale literaire magazine fleursdumal.nl met de roman KATAPULT, DE ONDERGANG VAN AMSTERDAM van Ton van Reen. KATAPULT zal iedere week op dinsdag en vrijdag verschijnen. Wij wensen onze lezers veel leesplezier.
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Märchen der Brüder Grimm
Jacob Grimm (1785-1863) & Wilhelm Grimm (1786-1859)
Der Gevatter Tod
Es hatte ein armer Mann zwölf Kinder und mußte Tag und Nacht arbeiten, damit er ihnen nur Brot geben konnte. Als nun das dreizehnte zur Welt kam, wußte er sich in seiner Not nicht zu helfen, lief hinaus auf die große Landstraße und wollte den ersten, der ihm begegnete, zu Gevatter bitten. Der erste, der ihm begegnete, das war der liebe Gott. Der wußte schon, was er auf dem Herzen hatte, und sprach zu ihm: “Armer Mann, du dauerst mich, ich will dein Kind aus der Taufe heben, will für es sorgen und es glücklich machen auf Erden.” Der Mann sprach: “Wer bist du?” – “Ich bin der liebe Gott.” – “So begehr’ ich dich nicht zu Gevatter,” sagte der Mann, “du gibst dem Reichen und lässest den Armen hungern.” Das sprach der Mann, weil er nicht wußte, wie weislich Gott Reichtum und Armut verteilt. Also wendete er sich von dem Herrn und ging weiter. Da trat der Teufel zu ihm und sprach: “Was suchst du? Willst du mich zum Paten deines Kindes nehmen, so will ich ihm Gold die Hülle und Fülle und alle Lust der Welt dazu geben.” Der Mann fragte: “Wer bist du?” – “Ich bin der Teufel.” – “So begehr’ ich dich nicht zu Gevatter,” sprach der Mann, “du betrügst und verführst die Menschen.” Er ging weiter; da kam der dürrbeinige Tod auf ihn zugeschritten und sprach: “Nimm mich zu Gevatter.” Der Mann fragte: “Wer bist du?” – “Ich bin der Tod, der alle gleichmacht.” Da sprach der Mann: “Du bist der Rechte, du holst den Reichen wie den Armen ohne Unterschied, du sollst mein Gevattersmann sein.” Der Tod antwortete: “Ich will dein Kind reich und berühmt machen; denn wer mich zum Freunde hat, dem kann’s nicht fehlen.” Der Mann sprach: “Künftigen Sonntag ist die Taufe, da stelle dich zu rechter Zeit ein.” Der Tod erschien, wie er versprochen hatte, und stand ganz ordentlich Gevatter.
Als der Knabe zu Jahren gekommen war, trat zu einer Zeit der Pate ein und hieß ihn mitgehen. Er führte ihn hinaus in den Wald, zeigte ihm ein Kraut, das da wuchs, und sprach: “Jetzt sollst du dein Patengeschenk empfangen. Ich mache dich zu einem berühmten Arzt. Wenn du zu einem Kranken gerufen wirst, so will ich dir jedesmal erscheinen: steh ich zu Häupten des Kranken, so kannst du keck sprechen, du wolltest ihn wieder gesund machen, und gibst du ihm dann von jenem Kraut ein, so wird er genesen; steh ich aber zu Füßen des Kranken, so ist er mein, und du mußt sagen, alle Hilfe sei umsonst und kein Arzt in der Welt könne ihn retten. Aber hüte dich, daß du das Kraut nicht gegen meinen Willen gebrauchst, es könnte dir schlimm ergehen!”
Es dauerte nicht lange, so war der Jüngling der berühmteste Arzt auf der ganzen Welt. “Er braucht nur den Kranken anzusehen, so weiß er schon, wie es steht, ob er wieder gesund wird oder ob er sterben muß,” so hieß es von ihm, und weit und breit kamen die Leute herbei, holten ihn zu den Kranken und gaben ihm so viel Gold, daß er bald ein reicher Mann war. Nun trug es sich zu, daß der König erkrankte. Der Arzt ward berufen und sollte sagen, ob Genesung möglich wäre. Wie er aber zu dem Bette trat, so stand der Tod zu den Füßen des Kranken, und da war für ihn kein Kraut mehr gewachsen. “Wenn ich doch einmal den Tod überlisten könnte,” dachte der Arzt, “er wird’s freilich übelnehmen, aber da ich sein Pate bin, so drückt er wohl ein Auge zu, ich will’s wagen.” Er fasste also den Kranken und legte ihn verkehrt, so daß der Tod zu Haupten desselben zu stehen kam. Dann gab er ihm von dem Kraute ein, und der König erholte sich und ward wieder gesund. Der Tod aber kam zu dem Arzte, machte ein böses und finsteres Gesicht, drohte mit dem Finger und sagte: “Du hast mich hinter das Licht geführt, diesmal will ich dir’s nachsehen, weil du mein Pate bist, aber wagst du das noch einmal, so geht dir’s an den Kragen, und ich nehme dich selbst mit fort.”
Bald hernach verfiel die Tochter des Königs in eine schwere Krankheit. Sie war sein einziges Kind, er weinte Tag und Nacht, daß ihm die Augen erblindeten, und ließ bekanntmachen, wer sie vom Tode errette, der sollte ihr Gemahl werden und die Krone erben. Der Arzt, als er zu dem Bette der Kranken kam, erblickte den Tod zu ihren Füßen. Er hätte sich der Warnung seines Paten erinnern sollen, aber die große Schönheit der Königstochter und das Glück, ihr Gemahl zu werden, betörten ihn so, daß er alle Gedanken in den Wind schlug. Er sah nicht, daß der Tod ihm zornige Blicke zuwarf, die Hand in die Höhe hob und mit der dürren Faust drohte; er hob die Kranke auf und legte ihr Haupt dahin, wo die Füße gelegen hatten. Dann gab er ihr das Kraut ein, und alsbald regte sich das Leben von neuem.
Der Tod, als er sich zum zweitenmal um sein Eigentum betrogen sah, ging mit langen Schritten auf den Arzt zu und sprach: “Es ist aus mit dir, und die Reihe kommt nun an dich,” packte ihn mit seiner eiskalten Hand so hart, daß er nicht widerstehen konnte, und führte ihn in eine unterirdische Höhle. Da sah er, wie tausend und tausend Lichter in unübersehbaren Reihen brannten, einige groß, andere halbgroß, andere klein. Jeden Augenblick verloschen einige, und andere brannten wieder auf, also daß die Flämmchen in beständigem Wechsel zu sein schienen. “Siehst du,” sprach der Tod, “das sind die Lebenslichter der Menschen. Die großen gehören Kindern, die halbgroßen Eheleuten in ihren besten Jahren, die kleinen gehören Greisen. Doch auch Kinder und junge Leute haben oft nur ein kleines Lichtchen.” – “Zeige mir mein Lebenslicht,” sagte der Arzt und meinte, es wäre noch recht groß. Der Tod deutete auf ein kleines Endchen, das eben auszugehen drohte, und sagte: “Siehst du, da ist es.” – “Ach, lieber Pate,” sagte der erschrockene Arzt, “zündet mir ein neues an, tut mir’s zuliebe, damit ich König werde und Gemahl der schönen Königstochter.” – “Ich kann nicht,” antwortete der Tod, “erst muß eins verlöschen, eh’ ein neues anbrennt.” – “So setzt das alte auf ein neues, das gleich fortbrennt, wenn jenes zu Ende ist,” bat der Arzt. Der Tod stellte sich, als ob er seinen Wunsch erfüllen wollte, langte ein frisches, großes Licht herbei, aber weil er sich rächen wollte, versah er’s beim Umstecken absichtlich, und das Stöckchen fiel um und verlosch. Alsbald sank der Arzt zu Boden und war nun selbst in die Hand des Todes geraten.
ENDE
Die Märchen der Brüder Grimm
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Grimm, Andersen e.o.: Fables, Fairy Tales & Stories, Grimm, Jacob & Wilhelm
James Joyce
(1882-1941)
A Little Cloud
Eight years before he had seen his friend off at the North Wall and wished him godspeed. Gallaher had got on. You could tell that at once by his travelled air, his well-cut tweed suit, and fearless accent. Few fellows had talents like his and fewer still could remain unspoiled by such success. Gallaher’s heart was in the right place and he had deserved to win. It was something to have a friend like that.
Little Chandler’s thoughts ever since lunch-time had been of his meeting with Gallaher, of Gallaher’s invitation and of the great city London where Gallaher lived. He was called Little Chandler because, though he was but slightly under the average stature, he gave one the idea of being a little man. His hands were white and small, his frame was fragile, his voice was quiet and his manners were refined. He took the greatest care of his fair silken hair and moustache and used perfume discreetly on his handkerchief. The half-moons of his nails were perfect and when he smiled you caught a glimpse of a row of childish white teeth.
As he sat at his desk in the King’s Inns he thought what changes those eight years had brought. The friend whom he had known under a shabby and necessitous guise had become a brilliant figure on the London Press. He turned often from his tiresome writing to gaze out of the office window. The glow of a late autumn sunset covered the grass plots and walks. It cast a shower of kindly golden dust on the untidy nurses and decrepit old men who drowsed on the benches; it flickered upon all the moving figures, on the children who ran screaming along the gravel paths and on everyone who passed through the gardens. He watched the scene and thought of life; and (as always happened when he thought of life) he became sad. A gentle melancholy took possession of him. He felt how useless it was to struggle against fortune, this being the burden of wisdom which the ages had bequeathed to him.
He remembered the books of poetry upon his shelves at home. He had bought them in his bachelor days and many an evening, as he sat in the little room off the hall, he had been tempted to take one down from the bookshelf and read out something to his wife. But shyness had always held him back; and so the books had remained on their shelves. At times he repeated lines to himself and this consoled him.
When his hour had struck he stood up and took leave of his desk and of his fellow-clerks punctiliously. He emerged from under the feudal arch of the King’s Inns, a neat modest figure, and walked swiftly down Henrietta Street. The golden sunset was waning and the air had grown sharp. A horde of grimy children populated the street. They stood or ran in the roadway or crawled up the steps before the gaping doors or squatted like mice upon the thresholds. Little Chandler gave them no thought. He picked his way deftly through all that minute vermin-like life and under the shadow of the gaunt spectral mansions in which the old nobility of Dublin had roystered. No memory of the past touched him, for his mind was full of a present joy.
He had never been in Corless’s but he knew the value of the name. He knew that people went there after the theatre to eat oysters and drink liqueurs; and he had heard that the waiters there spoke French and German. Walking swiftly by at night he had seen cabs drawn up before the door and richly dressed ladies, escorted by cavaliers, alight and enter quickly. They wore noisy dresses and many wraps. Their faces were powdered and they caught up their dresses, when they touched earth, like alarmed Atalantas. He had always passed without turning his head to look. It was his habit to walk swiftly in the street even by day and whenever he found himself in the city late at night he hurried on his way apprehensively and excitedly. Sometimes, however, he courted the causes of his fear. He chose the darkest and narrowest streets and, as he walked boldly forward, the silence that was spread about his footsteps troubled him, the wandering, silent figures troubled him; and at times a sound of low fugitive laughter made him tremble like a leaf.
He turned to the right towards Capel Street. Ignatius Gallaher on the London Press! Who would have thought it possible eight years before? Still, now that he reviewed the past, Little Chandler could remember many signs of future greatness in his friend. People used to say that Ignatius Gallaher was wild Of course, he did mix with a rakish set of fellows at that time. drank freely and borrowed money on all sides. In the end he had got mixed up in some shady affair, some money transaction: at least, that was one version of his flight. But nobody denied him talent. There was always a certain . . . something in Ignatius Gallaher that impressed you in spite of yourself. Even when he was out at elbows and at his wits’ end for money he kept up a bold face. Little Chandler remembered (and the remembrance brought a slight flush of pride to his cheek) one of Ignatius Gallaher’s sayings when he was in a tight corner
“Half time now, boys,” he used to say light-heartedly. “Where’s my considering cap?”
That was Ignatius Gallaher all out; and, damn it, you couldn’t but admire him for it.
Little Chandler quickened his pace. For the first time in his life he felt himself superior to the people he passed. For the first time his soul revolted against the dull inelegance of Capel Street. There was no doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You could do nothing in Dublin. As he crossed Grattan Bridge he looked down the river towards the lower quays and pitied the poor stunted houses. They seemed to him a band of tramps, huddled together along the riverbanks, their old coats covered with dust and soot, stupefied by the panorama of sunset and waiting for the first chill of night bid them arise, shake themselves and begone. He wondered whether he could write a poem to express his idea. Perhaps Gallaher might be able to get it into some London paper for him. Could he write something original? He was not sure what idea he wished to express but the thought that a poetic moment had touched him took life within him like an infant hope. He stepped onward bravely.
Every step brought him nearer to London, farther from his own sober inartistic life. A light began to tremble on the horizon of his mind. He was not so old, thirty-two. His temperament might be said to be just at the point of maturity. There were so many different moods and impressions that he wished to express in verse. He felt them within him. He tried weigh his soul to see if it was a poet’s soul. Melancholy was the dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it was a melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple joy. If he could give expression to it in a book of poems perhaps men would listen. He would never be popular: he saw that. He could not sway the crowd but he might appeal to a little circle of kindred minds. The English critics, perhaps, would recognise him as one of the Celtic school by reason of the melancholy tone of his poems; besides that, he would put in allusions. He began to invent sentences and phrases from the notice which his book would get. “Mr. Chandler has the gift of easy and graceful verse.” . . . “wistful sadness pervades these poems.” . . . “The Celtic note.” It was a pity his name was not more Irish-looking. Perhaps it would be better to insert his mother’s name before the surname: Thomas Malone Chandler, or better still: T. Malone Chandler. He would speak to Gallaher about it.
He pursued his revery so ardently that he passed his street and had to turn back. As he came near Corless’s his former agitation began to overmaster him and he halted before the door in indecision. Finally he opened the door and entered.
The light and noise of the bar held him at the doorways for a few moments. He looked about him, but his sight was confused by the shining of many red and green wine-glasses The bar seemed to him to be full of people and he felt that the people were observing him curiously. He glanced quickly to right and left (frowning slightly to make his errand appear serious), but when his sight cleared a little he saw that nobody had turned to look at him: and there, sure enough, was Ignatius Gallaher leaning with his back against the counter and his feet planted far apart.
“Hallo, Tommy, old hero, here you are! What is it to be? What will you have? I’m taking whisky: better stuff than we get across the water. Soda? Lithia? No mineral? I’m the same Spoils the flavour. . . . Here, garçon, bring us two halves of malt whisky, like a good fellow. . . . Well, and how have you been pulling along since I saw you last? Dear God, how old we’re getting! Do you see any signs of aging in me, eh, what? A little grey and thin on the top, what?”
Ignatius Gallaher took off his hat and displayed a large closely cropped head. His face was heavy, pale and cleanshaven. His eyes, which were of bluish slate-colour, relieved his unhealthy pallor and shone out plainly above the vivid orange tie he wore. Between these rival features the lips appeared very long and shapeless and colourless. He bent his head and felt with two sympathetic fingers the thin hair at the crown. Little Chandler shook his head as a denial. Ignatius Galaher put on his hat again.
“It pulls you down,” be said, “Press life. Always hurry and scurry, looking for copy and sometimes not finding it: and then, always to have something new in your stuff. Damn proofs and printers, I say, for a few days. I’m deuced glad, I can tell you, to get back to the old country. Does a fellow good, a bit of a holiday. I feel a ton better since I landed again in dear dirty Dublin. . . . Here you are, Tommy. Water? Say when.”
Little Chandler allowed his whisky to be very much diluted.
“You don’t know what’s good for you, my boy,” said Ignatius Gallaher. “I drink mine neat.”
“I drink very little as a rule,” said Little Chandler modestly. “An odd half-one or so when I meet any of the old crowd: that’s all.”
“Ah well,” said Ignatius Gallaher, cheerfully, “here’s to us and to old times and old acquaintance.”
They clinked glasses and drank the toast.
“I met some of the old gang today,” said Ignatius Gallaher. “O’Hara seems to be in a bad way. What’s he doing?”
“Nothing,” said Little Chandler. “He’s gone to the dogs.”
“But Hogan has a good sit, hasn’t he?”
“Yes; he’s in the Land Commission.”
“I met him one night in London and he seemed to be very flush. . . . Poor O’Hara! Boose, I suppose?”
“Other things, too,” said Little Chandler shortly.
Ignatius Gallaher laughed.
“Tommy,” he said, “I see you haven’t changed an atom. You’re the very same serious person that used to lecture me on Sunday mornings when I had a sore head and a fur on my tongue. You’d want to knock about a bit in the world. Have you never been anywhere even for a trip?”
“I’ve been to the Isle of Man,” said Little Chandler.
Ignatius Gallaher laughed.
“The Isle of Man!” he said. “Go to London or Paris: Paris, for choice. That’d do you good.”
“Have you seen Paris?”
“I should think I have! I’ve knocked about there a little.”
“And is it really so beautiful as they say?” asked Little Chandler.
He sipped a little of his drink while Ignatius Gallaher finished his boldly.
“Beautiful?” said Ignatius Gallaher, pausing on the word and on the flavour of his drink. “It’s not so beautiful, you know. Of course, it is beautiful. . . . But it’s the life of Paris; that’s the thing. Ah, there’s no city like Paris for gaiety, movement, excitement. . . . ”
Little Chandler finished his whisky and, after some trouble, succeeded in catching the barman’s eye. He ordered the same again.
“I’ve been to the Moulin Rouge,” Ignatius Gallaher continued when the barman had removed their glasses, “and I’ve been to all the Bohemian cafes. Hot stuff! Not for a pious chap like you, Tommy.”
Little Chandler said nothing until the barman returned with two glasses: then he touched his friend’s glass lightly and reciprocated the former toast. He was beginning to feel somewhat disillusioned. Gallaher’s accent and way of expressing himself did not please him. There was something vulgar in his friend which he had not observed before. But perhaps it was only the result of living in London amid the bustle and competition of the Press. The old personal charm was still there under this new gaudy manner. And, after all, Gallaher had lived, he had seen the world. Little Chandler looked at his friend enviously.
“Everything in Paris is gay,” said Ignatius Gallaher. “They believe in enjoying life, and don’t you think they’re right? If you want to enjoy yourself properly you must go to Paris. And, mind you, they’ve a great feeling for the Irish there. When they heard I was from Ireland they were ready to eat me, man.”
Little Chandler took four or five sips from his glass.
“Tell me,” he said, “is it true that Paris is so . . . immoral as they say?”
Ignatius Gallaher made a catholic gesture with his right arm.
“Every place is immoral,” he said. “Of course you do find spicy bits in Paris. Go to one of the students’ balls, for instance. That’s lively, if you like, when the cocottes begin to let themselves loose. You know what they are, I suppose?”
“I’ve heard of them,” said Little Chandler.
Ignatius Gallaher drank off his whisky and shook his had.
“Ah,” he said, “you may say what you like. There’s no woman like the Parisienne, for style, for go.”
“Then it is an immoral city,” said Little Chandler, with timid insistence, “I mean, compared with London or Dublin?”
“London!” said Ignatius Gallaher. “It’s six of one and half-a-dozen of the other. You ask Hogan, my boy. I showed him a bit about London when he was over there. He’d open your eye. . . . I say, Tommy, don’t make punch of that whisky: liquor up.”
“No, really. . . . ”
“O, come on, another one won’t do you any harm. What is it? The same again, I suppose?”
“Well . . . all right.”
“François, the same again. . . . Will you smoke, Tommy?”
Ignatius Gallaher produced his cigar-case. The two friends lit their cigars and puffed at them in silence until their drinks were served.
“I’ll tell you my opinion,” said Ignatius Gallaher, emerging after some time from the clouds of smoke in which he had taken refuge, “it’s a rum world. Talk of immorality! I’ve heard of cases, what am I saying?, I’ve known them: cases of . . . immorality. . . . ”
Ignatius Gallaher puffed thoughtfully at his cigar and then, in a calm historian’s tone, he proceeded to sketch for his friend some pictures of the corruption which was rife abroad. He summarised the vices of many capitals and seemed inclined to award the palm to Berlin. Some things he could not vouch for (his friends had told him), but of others he had had personal experience. He spared neither rank nor caste. He revealed many of the secrets of religious houses on the Continent and described some of the practices which were fashionable in high society and ended by telling, with details, a story about an English duchess, a story which he knew to be true. Little Chandler as astonished.
“Ah, well,” said Ignatius Gallaher, “here we are in old jog-along Dublin where nothing is known of such things.”
“How dull you must find it,” said Little Chandler, “after all the other places you’ve seen!”
Well,” said Ignatius Gallaher, “it’s a relaxation to come over here, you know. And, after all, it’s the old country, as they say, isn’t it? You can’t help having a certain feeling for it. That’s human nature. . . . But tell me something about yourself. Hogan told me you had . . . tasted the joys of connubial bliss. Two years ago, wasn’t it?”
Little Chandler blushed and smiled.
“Yes,” he said. “I was married last May twelve months.”
“I hope it’s not too late in the day to offer my best wishes,” said Ignatius Gallaher. “I didn’t know your address or I’d have done so at the time.”
He extended his hand, which Little Chandler took.
“Well, Tommy,” he said, “I wish you and yours every joy in life, old chap, and tons of money, and may you never die till I shoot you. And that’s the wish of a sincere friend, an old friend. You know that?”
“I know that,” said Little Chandler.
“Any youngsters?” said Ignatius Gallaher.
Little Chandler blushed again.
“We have one child,” he said.
“Son or daughter?”
“A little boy.”
Ignatius Gallaher slapped his friend sonorously on the back.
“Bravo,” he said, “I wouldn’t doubt you, Tommy.”
Little Chandler smiled, looked confusedly at his glass and bit his lower lip with three childishly white front teeth.
“I hope you’ll spend an evening with us,” he said, “before you go back. My wife will be delighted to meet you. We can have a little music and, , ”
“Thanks awfully, old chap,” said Ignatius Gallaher, “I’m sorry we didn’t meet earlier. But I must leave tomorrow night.”
“Tonight, perhaps . . . ?”
“I’m awfully sorry, old man. You see I’m over here with another fellow, clever young chap he is too, and we arranged to go to a little card-party. Only for that . . . ”
“O, in that case . . . ”
“But who knows?” said Ignatius Gallaher considerately. “Next year I may take a little skip over here now that I’ve broken the ice. It’s only a pleasure deferred.”
“Very well,” said Little Chandler, “the next time you come we must have an evening together. That’s agreed now, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s agreed,” said Ignatius Gallaher. “Next year if I come, parole d’honneur.”
“And to clinch the bargain,” said Little Chandler, “we’ll just have one more now.”
Ignatius Gallaher took out a large gold watch and looked a it.
“Is it to be the last?” he said. “Because you know, I have an a.p.”
“O, yes, positively,” said Little Chandler.
“Very well, then,” said Ignatius Gallaher, “let us have another one as a deoc an doruis, that’s good vernacular for a small whisky, I believe.”
Little Chandler ordered the drinks. The blush which had risen to his face a few moments before was establishing itself. A trifle made him blush at any time: and now he felt warm and excited. Three small whiskies had gone to his head and Gallaher’s strong cigar had confused his mind, for he was a delicate and abstinent person. The adventure of meeting Gallaher after eight years, of finding himself with Gallaher in Corless’s surrounded by lights and noise, of listening to Gallaher’s stories and of sharing for a brief space Gallaher’s vagrant and triumphant life, upset the equipoise of his sensitive nature. He felt acutely the contrast between his own life and his friend’s and it seemed to him unjust. Gallaher was his inferior in birth and education. He was sure that he could do something better than his friend had ever done, or could ever do, something higher than mere tawdry journalism if he only got the chance. What was it that stood in his way? His unfortunate timidity He wished to vindicate himself in some way, to assert his manhood. He saw behind Gallaher’s refusal of his invitation. Gallaher was only patronising him by his friendliness just as he was patronising Ireland by his visit.
The barman brought their drinks. Little Chandler pushed one glass towards his friend and took up the other boldly.
“Who knows?” he said, as they lifted their glasses. “When you come next year I may have the pleasure of wishing long life and happiness to Mr. and Mrs. Ignatius Gallaher.”
Ignatius Gallaher in the act of drinking closed one eye expressively over the rim of his glass. When he had drunk he smacked his lips decisively, set down his glass and said:
“No blooming fear of that, my boy. I’m going to have my fling first and see a bit of life and the world before I put my head in the sack, if I ever do.”
“Some day you will,” said Little Chandler calmly.
Ignatius Gallaher turned his orange tie and slate-blue eyes full upon his friend.
“You think so?” he said.
“You’ll put your head in the sack,” repeated Little Chandler stoutly, “like everyone else if you can find the girl.”
He had slightly emphasised his tone and he was aware that he had betrayed himself; but, though the colour had heightened in his cheek, he did not flinch from his friend’s gaze. Ignatius Gallaher watched him for a few moments and then said:
“If ever it occurs, you may bet your bottom dollar there’ll be no mooning and spooning about it. I mean to marry money. She’ll have a good fat account at the bank or she won’t do for me.”
Little Chandler shook his head.
“Why, man alive,” said Ignatius Gallaher, vehemently, “do you know what it is? I’ve only to say the word and tomorrow I can have the woman and the cash. You don’t believe it? Well, I know it. There are hundreds, what am I saying?, thousands of rich Germans and Jews, rotten with money, that’d only be too glad. . . . You wait a while my boy. See if I don’t play my cards properly. When I go about a thing I mean business, I tell you. You just wait.”
He tossed his glass to his mouth, finished his drink and laughed loudly. Then he looked thoughtfully before him and said in a calmer tone:
“But I’m in no hurry. They can wait. I don’t fancy tying myself up to one woman, you know.”
He imitated with his mouth the act of tasting and made a wry face.
“Must get a bit stale, I should think,” he said.
Little Chandler sat in the room off the hall, holding a child in his arms. To save money they kept no servant but Annie’s young sister Monica came for an hour or so in the morning and an hour or so in the evening to help. But Monica had gone home long ago. It was a quarter to nine. Little Chandler had come home late for tea and, moreover, he had forgotten to bring Annie home the parcel of coffee from Bewley’s. Of course she was in a bad humour and gave him short answers. She said she would do without any tea but when it came near the time at which the shop at the corner closed she decided to go out herself for a quarter of a pound of tea and two pounds of sugar. She put the sleeping child deftly in his arms and said:
“Here. Don’t waken him.”
A little lamp with a white china shade stood upon the table and its light fell over a photograph which was enclosed in a frame of crumpled horn. It was Annie’s photograph. Little Chandler looked at it, pausing at the thin tight lips. She wore the pale blue summer blouse which he had brought her home as a present one Saturday. It had cost him ten and elevenpence; but what an agony of nervousness it had cost him! How he had suffered that day, waiting at the shop door until the shop was empty, standing at the counter and trying to appear at his ease while the girl piled ladies’ blouses before him, paying at the desk and forgetting to take up the odd penny of his change, being called back by the cashier, and finally, striving to hide his blushes as he left the shop by examining the parcel to see if it was securely tied. When he brought the blouse home Annie kissed him and said it was very pretty and stylish; but when she heard the price she threw the blouse on the table and said it was a regular swindle to charge ten and elevenpence for it. At first she wanted to take it back but when she tried it on she was delighted with it, especially with the make of the sleeves, and kissed him and said he was very good to think of her.
Hm! . . .
He looked coldly into the eyes of the photograph and they answered coldly. Certainly they were pretty and the face itself was pretty. But he found something mean in it. Why was it so unconscious and ladylike? The composure of the eyes irritated him. They repelled him and defied him: there was no passion in them, no rapture. He thought of what Gallaher had said about rich Jewesses. Those dark Oriental eyes, he thought, how full they are of passion, of voluptuous longing! . . . Why had he married the eyes in the photograph?
He caught himself up at the question and glanced nervously round the room. He found something mean in the pretty furniture which he had bought for his house on the hire system. Annie had chosen it herself and it reminded him of her. It too was prim and pretty. A dull resentment against his life awoke within him. Could he not escape from his little house? Was it too late for him to try to live bravely like Gallaher? Could he go to London? There was the furniture still to be paid for. If he could only write a book and get it published, that might open the way for him.
A volume of Byron’s poems lay before him on the table. He opened it cautiously with his left hand lest he should waken the child and began to read the first poem in the book:
Hushed are the winds and still the evening gloom,
Not e’en a Zephyr wanders through the grove,
Whilst I return to view my Margaret’s tomb
And scatter flowers on the dust I love.
He paused. He felt the rhythm of the verse about him in the room. How melancholy it was! Could he, too, write like that, express the melancholy of his soul in verse? There were so many things he wanted to describe: his sensation of a few hours before on Grattan Bridge, for example. If he could get back again into that mood. . . .
The child awoke and began to cry. He turned from the page and tried to hush it: but it would not be hushed. He began to rock it to and fro in his arms but its wailing cry grew keener. He rocked it faster while his eyes began to read the second stanza:
Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,
That clay where once . . .
It was useless. He couldn’t read. He couldn’t do anything. The wailing of the child pierced the drum of his ear. It was useless, useless! He was a prisoner for life. His arms trembled with anger and suddenly bending to the child’s face he shouted:
“Stop!”
The child stopped for an instant, had a spasm of fright and began to scream. He jumped up from his chair and walked hastily up and down the room with the child in his arms. It began to sob piteously, losing its breath for four or five seconds, and then bursting out anew. The thin walls of the room echoed the sound. He tried to soothe it but it sobbed more convulsively. He looked at the contracted and quivering face of the child and began to be alarmed. He counted seven sobs without a break between them and caught the child to his breast in fright. If it died! . . .
The door was burst open and a young woman ran in, panting.
“What is it? What is it?” she cried.
The child, hearing its mother’s voice, broke out into a paroxysm of sobbing.
“It’s nothing, Annie . . . it’s nothing. . . . He began to cry . . . ”
She flung her parcels on the floor and snatched the child from him.
“What have you done to him?” she cried, glaring into his face.
Little Chandler sustained for one moment the gaze of her eyes and his heart closed together as he met the hatred in them. He began to stammer:
“It’s nothing. . . . He . . . he began to cry. . . . I couldn’t . . . I didn’t do anything. . . . What?”
Giving no heed to him she began to walk up and down the room, clasping the child tightly in her arms and murmuring:
“My little man! My little mannie! Was ’ou frightened, love? . . . There now, love! There now!… Lambabaun! Mamma’s little lamb of the world! . . . There now!”
Little Chandler felt his cheeks suffused with shame and he stood back out of the lamplight. He listened while the paroxysm of the child’s sobbing grew less and less; and tears of remorse started to his eyes.
James Joyce stories
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive I-J, Joyce, James, Joyce, James
Märchen der Brüder Grimm
Jacob Grimm (1785-1863) & Wilhelm Grimm (1786-1859)
Der arme Junge im Grab
Es war einmal ein armer Hirtenjunge’ dem war Vater und Mutter gestorben, und er war von der Obrigkeit einem reichen Mann in das Haus gegeben, der sollte ihn ernähren und erziehen. Der Mann aber und seine Frau hatten ein böses Herz, waren bei allem Reichtum geizig und mißgünstig, und ärgerten sich, wenn jemand einen Bissen von ihrem Brot in den Mund steckte. Der arme Junge mochte tun, was er wollte, er erhielt wenig zu essen, aber desto mehr Schläge.
Eines Tages sollte er die Glucke mit ihren Küchlein hüten. Sie verlief sich aber mit ihren Jungen durch einen Heckenzaun: gleich schoß der Habicht herab und entführte sie durch die Lüfte. Der Junge schrie aus Leibeskräften ‘Dieb, Dieb, Spitzbub.’ Aber was half das? der Habicht brachte seinen Raub nicht wieder zurück. Der Mann hörte den Lärm, lief herbei, und als er vernahm, daß seine Henne weg war, so geriet er in Wut und gab dem Jungen eine solche Tracht Schläge, daß er sich ein paar Tage lang nicht regen konnte. Nun mußte er die Küchlein ohne die Henne hüten, aber da war die Not noch größer, das eine lief dahin, das andere dorthin. Da meinte er es klug zu machen, wenn er sie alle zusammen an eine Schnur bände, weil ihm dann der Habicht keins wegstehlen könnte. Aber weit gefehlt. Nach ein paar Tagen, als er von dem Herumlaufen und vom Hunger ermüdet einschlief, kam der Raubvogel und packte eins von den Küchlein, und da die andern daran festhingen, so trug er sie alle mit fort, setzte sich auf einen Baum und schluckte sie hinunter. Der Bauer kam eben nach Haus, und als er das Unglück sah, erboste er sich und schlug den Jungen so unbarmherzig, daß er mehrere Tage im Bette liegen mußte.
Als er wieder auf den Beinen war, sprach der Bauer zu ihm ‘du bist mir zu dumm, ich kann dich zum Hüter nicht brauchen, du sollst als Bote gehen.’ Da schickte er ihn zum Richter, dem er einen Korb voll Trauben bringen sollte, und gab ihm noch einen Brief mit. Unterwegs plagte Hunger und Durst den armen Jungen so heftig, daß er zwei von den Trauben aß. Er brachte dem Richter den Korb, als dieser aber den Brief gelesen und die Trauben gezählt hatte, so sagte er ‘es fehlen zwei Stück.’ Der Junge gestand ganz ehrlich, daß er, von Hunger und Durst getrieben, die fehlenden verzehrt habe. Der Richter schrieb einen Brief an den Bauer und verlangte noch einmal soviel Trauben. Auch diese mußte der Junge mit einem Brief hintragen. Als ihn wieder so gewaltig hungerte und durstete, so konnte er sich nicht anders helfen, er verzehrte abermals zwei Trauben. Doch nahm er vorher den Brief aus dem Korb, legte ihn unter einen Stein und setzte sich darauf, damit der Brief nicht zusehen und ihn verraten könnte. Der Richter aber stellte ihn doch der fehlenden Stücke wegen zur Rede. ‘Ach,’ sagte der Junge, ‘wie habt Ihr das erfahren? der Brief konnte es nicht wissen, denn ich hatte ihn zuvor unter einen Stein gelegt.’ Der Richter mußte über die Einfalt lachen, und schickte dem Mann einen Brief, worin er ihn ermahnte, den armen Jungen besser zu halten und es ihm an Speis und Trank nicht fehlen zu lassen; auch möchte er ihn lehren, was recht und unrecht sei.
‘Ich will dir den Unterschied schon zeigen,’ sagte der harte Mann; ‘willst du aber essen’ so mußt du auch arbeiten, und tust du etwas Unrechtes, so sollst du durch Schläge hinlänglich belehrt werden.’ Am folgenden Tag stellte er ihn an eine schwere Arbeit. Er sollte ein paar Bund Stroh zum Futter für die Pferde schneiden; dabei drohte der Mann: ‘in fünf Stunden,’ sprach er, ‘bin ich wieder zurück, wenn dann das Stroh nicht zu Häcksel geschnitten ist, so schlage ich dich so lange, bis du kein Glied mehr regen kannst.’ Der Bauer ging mit seiner Frau, dem Knecht und der Magd auf den Jahrmarkt und ließ dem Jungen nichts zurück als ein kleines Stück Brot. Der Junge stellte sich an den Strohstuhl und fing an, aus allen Leibeskräften zu arbeiten. Da ihm dabei heiß ward, so zog er sein Röcklein aus und warfs auf das Stroh. In der Angst, nicht fertig zu werden, schnitt er immerzu, und in seinem Eifer zerschnitt er unvermerkt mit dem Stroh auch sein Röcklein. Zu spät ward er das Unglück gewahr, das sich nicht wieder gutmachen ließ. ‘Ach,’ rief er, ‘jetzt ist es aus mit mir. Der böse Mann hat mir nicht umsonst gedroht, kommt er zurück und sieht, was ich getan habe, so schlägt er mich tot. Lieber will ich mir selbst das Leben nehmen.’
Der Junge hatte einmal gehört, wie die Bäuerin sprach ‘unter dem Bett habe ich einen Topf mit Gift stehen.’ Sie hatte es aber nur gesagt, um die Näscher zurückzuhalten, denn es war Honig darin. Der Junge kroch unter das Bett, holte den Topf hervor und aß ihn ganz aus. ‘Ich weiß nicht,’ sprach er, ‘die Leute sagen’ der Tod sei bitter, mir schmeckt er süß. Kein Wunder, daß die Bäuerin sich so oft den Tod wünscht.’ Er setzte sich auf ein Stühlchen und war gefaßt zu sterben. Aber statt daß er schwächer werden sollte, fühlte er sich von der nahrhaften Speise gestärkt. ‘Es muß kein Gift gewesen sein,’ sagte er, ‘aber der Bauer hat einmal gesagt’ in seinem Kleiderkasten läge ein Fläschchen mit Fliegengift, das wird wohl das wahre Gift sein und mir den Tod bringen.’ Es war aber kein Fliegengift’ sondern Ungarwein. Der Junge holte die Flasche heraus und trank sie aus. ‘Auch dieser Tod schmeckt süß,’ sagte er, doch als bald hernach der Wein anfing ihm ins Gehirn zu steigen und ihn zu betäuben, so meinte er, sein Ende nahte sich heran. ‘Ich fühle, daß ich sterben muß,’ sprach er, ‘ich will hinaus auf den Kirchhof gehen und ein Grab suchen.’ Er taumelte fort, erreichte den Kirchhof und legte sich in ein frisch geöffnetes Grab. Die Sinne verschwanden ihm immer mehr. In der Nähe stand ein Wirtshaus, wo eine Hochzeit gefeiert wurde: als er die Musik hörte, deuchte er sich schon im Paradies zu sein, bis er endlich alle Besinnung verlor. Der arme Junge erwachte nicht wieder, die Glut des heißen Weines und der kalte Tau der Nacht nahmen ihm das Leben, und er verblieb in dem Grab, in das er sich selbst gelegt hatte.
Als der Bauer die Nachricht von dem Tod des Jungen erhielt, erschrak er und fürchtete, vor das Gericht geführt zu werden: ja die Angst faßte ihn so gewaltig, daß er ohnmächtig zur Erde sank. Die Frau, die mit einer Pfanne voll Schmalz am Herde stand, lief herzu, um ihm Beistand zu leisten. Aber das Feuer schlug in die Pfanne, ergriff das ganze Haus, und nach wenigen Stunden lag es schon in Asche. Die Jahre, die sie noch zu leben hatten, brachten sie, von Gewissensbissen geplagt, in Armut und Elend zu.
ENDE
Die Märchen der Brüder Grimm
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More in: Grimm, Grimm, Andersen e.o.: Fables, Fairy Tales & Stories, Grimm, Jacob & Wilhelm
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Märchen der Brüder Grimm
Jacob Grimm (1785-1863) & Wilhelm Grimm (1786-1859)
Der Wolf und der Mensch
Der Fuchs erzählte einmal dem Wolf von der Stärke des Menschen, kein Tier könnte ihm widerstehen, und sie müßten List gebrauchen, um sich vor ihm zu erhalten. Da antwortete der Wolf ‘wenn ich nur einmal einen Menschen zu sehen bekäme, ich wollte doch auf ihn losgehen.’ ‘Dazu kann ich dir helfen,’ sprach der Fuchs, ‘komm nur morgen früh zu mir, so will ich dir einen zeigen.’ Der Wolf stellte sich frühzeitig ein, und der Fuchs brachte ihn hinaus auf den Weg, den der Jäger alle Tage ging. Zuerst kam ein alter abgedankter Soldat. ‘Ist das ein Mensch?’ fragte der Wolf. ‘Nein,’ antwortete der Fuchs, ‘das ist einer gewesen.’ Danach kam ein kleiner Knabe, der zur Schule wollte. ‘Ist das ein Mensch?’ ‘Nein, das will erst einer werden.’ Endlich kam der Jäger, die Doppelflinte auf dem Rücken und den Hirschfänger an der Seite. Sprach der Fuchs zum Wolf ‘siehst du, dort kommt ein Mensch, auf den mußt du losgehen, ich aber will mich fort in meine Höhle machen.’ Der Wolf ging nun auf den Menschen los, der Jäger, als er ihn erblickte, sprach ‘es ist schade, daß ich keine Kugel geladen habe,’ legte an und schoß dem Wolf das Schrot ins Gesicht. Der Wolf verzog das Gesicht gewaltig, doch ließ er sich nicht schrecken und ging vorwärts: da gab ihm der Jäger die zweite Ladung. Der Wolf verbiß den Schmerz und rückte dem Jäger zu Leibe: da zog dieser seinen blanken Hirschfänger und gab ihm links und rechts ein paar Hiebe, daß er, über und über blutend, mit Geheul zu dem Fuchs zurücklief. ‘Nun, Bruder Wolf,’ sprach der Fuchs, ‘wie bist du mit dem Menschen fertig worden?’ ‘Ach,’ antwortete der Wolf, ‘so hab ich mir die Stärke des Menschen nicht vorgestellt, erst nahm er einen Stock von der Schulter und blies hinein, da flog mir etwas ins Gesicht, das hat mich ganz entsetzlich gekitzelt: danach pustete er noch einmal in den Stock, da flog mirs um die Nase wie Blitz und Hagelwetter, und wie ich ganz nah war, da zog er eine blanke Rippe aus dem Leib, damit hat er so auf mich losgeschlagen, daß ich beinah tot wäre liegen geblieben.’ ‘Siehst du,’ sprach der Fuchs, ‘was du für ein Prahlhans bist: du wirfst das Beil so weit, daß dus nicht wieder holen kannst.’
ENDE
Die Märchen der Brüder Grimm
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Grimm, Grimm, Andersen e.o.: Fables, Fairy Tales & Stories, Grimm, Jacob & Wilhelm
James Joyce
(1882-1941)
Counterparts
The bell rang furiously and, when Miss Parker went to the tube, a furious voice called out in a piercing North of Ireland accent:
“Send Farrington here!”
Miss Parker returned to her machine, saying to a man who was writing at a desk:
“Mr. Alleyne wants you upstairs.”
The man muttered “Blast him!” under his breath and pushed back his chair to stand up. When he stood up he was tall and of great bulk. He had a hanging face, dark wine-coloured, with fair eyebrows and moustache: his eyes bulged forward slightly and the whites of them were dirty. He lifted up the counter and, passing by the clients, went out of the office with a heavy step.
He went heavily upstairs until he came to the second landing, where a door bore a brass plate with the inscription Mr. Alleyne. Here he halted, puffing with labour and vexation, and knocked. The shrill voice cried:
“Come in!”
The man entered Mr. Alleyne’s room. Simultaneously Mr. Alleyne, a little man wearing gold-rimmed glasses on a cleanshaven face, shot his head up over a pile of documents. The head itself was so pink and hairless it seemed like a large egg reposing on the papers. Mr. Alleyne did not lose a moment:
“Farrington? What is the meaning of this? Why have I always to complain of you? May I ask you why you haven’t made a copy of that contract between Bodley and Kirwan? I told you it must be ready by four o’clock.”
“But Mr. Shelley said, sir—-“
“Mr. Shelley said, sir …. Kindly attend to what I say and not to what Mr. Shelley says, sir. You have always some excuse or another for shirking work. Let me tell you that if the contract is not copied before this evening I’ll lay the matter before Mr. Crosbie…. Do you hear me now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you hear me now?… Ay and another little matter! I might as well be talking to the wall as talking to you. Understand once for all that you get a half an hour for your lunch and not an hour and a half. How many courses do you want, I’d like to know…. Do you mind me now?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Alleyne bent his head again upon his pile of papers. The man stared fixedly at the polished skull which directed the affairs of Crosbie & Alleyne, gauging its fragility. A spasm of rage gripped his throat for a few moments and then passed, leaving after it a sharp sensation of thirst. The man recognised the sensation and felt that he must have a good night’s drinking. The middle of the month was passed and, if he could get the copy done in time, Mr. Alleyne might give him an order on the cashier. He stood still, gazing fixedly at the head upon the pile of papers. Suddenly Mr. Alleyne began to upset all the papers, searching for something. Then, as if he had been unaware of the man’s presence till that moment, he shot up his head again, saying:
“Eh? Are you going to stand there all day? Upon my word, Farrington, you take things easy!”
“I was waiting to see…”
“Very good, you needn’t wait to see. Go downstairs and do your work.”
The man walked heavily towards the door and, as he went out of the room, he heard Mr. Alleyne cry after him that if the contract was not copied by evening Mr. Crosbie would hear of the matter.
He returned to his desk in the lower office and counted the sheets which remained to be copied. He took up his pen and dipped it in the ink but he continued to stare stupidly at the last words he had written: In no case shall the said Bernard Bodley be… The evening was falling and in a few minutes they would be lighting the gas: then he could write. He felt that he must slake the thirst in his throat. He stood up from his desk and, lifting the counter as before, passed out of the office. As he was passing out the chief clerk looked at him inquiringly.
“It’s all right, Mr. Shelley,” said the man, pointing with his finger to indicate the objective of his journey.
The chief clerk glanced at the hat-rack, but, seeing the row complete, offered no remark. As soon as he was on the landing the man pulled a shepherd’s plaid cap out of his pocket, put it on his head and ran quickly down the rickety stairs. From the street door he walked on furtively on the inner side of the path towards the corner and all at once dived into a doorway. He was now safe in the dark snug of O’Neill’s shop, and filling up the little window that looked into the bar with his inflamed face, the colour of dark wine or dark meat, he called out:
“Here, Pat, give us a g.p.. like a good fellow.”
The curate brought him a glass of plain porter. The man drank it at a gulp and asked for a caraway seed. He put his penny on the counter and, leaving the curate to grope for it in the gloom, retreated out of the snug as furtively as he had entered it.
Darkness, accompanied by a thick fog, was gaining upon the dusk of February and the lamps in Eustace Street had been lit. The man went up by the houses until he reached the door of the office, wondering whether he could finish his copy in time. On the stairs a moist pungent odour of perfumes saluted his nose: evidently Miss Delacour had come while he was out in O’Neill’s. He crammed his cap back again into his pocket and re-entered the office, assuming an air of absentmindedness.
“Mr. Alleyne has been calling for you,” said the chief clerk severely. “Where were you?”
The man glanced at the two clients who were standing at the counter as if to intimate that their presence prevented him from answering. As the clients were both male the chief clerk allowed himself a laugh.
“I know that game,” he said. “Five times in one day is a little bit… Well, you better look sharp and get a copy of our correspondence in the Delacour case for Mr. Alleyne.”
This address in the presence of the public, his run upstairs and the porter he had gulped down so hastily confused the man and, as he sat down at his desk to get what was required, he realised how hopeless was the task of finishing his copy of the contract before half past five. The dark damp night was coming and he longed to spend it in the bars, drinking with his friends amid the glare of gas and the clatter of glasses. He got out the Delacour correspondence and passed out of the office. He hoped Mr. Alleyne would not discover that the last two letters were missing.
The moist pungent perfume lay all the way up to Mr. Alleyne’s room. Miss Delacour was a middle-aged woman of Jewish appearance. Mr. Alleyne was said to be sweet on her or on her money. She came to the office often and stayed a long time when she came. She was sitting beside his desk now in an aroma of perfumes, smoothing the handle of her umbrella and nodding the great black feather in her hat. Mr. Alleyne had swivelled his chair round to face her and thrown his right foot jauntily upon his left knee. The man put the correspondence on the desk and bowed respectfully but neither Mr. Alleyne nor Miss Delacour took any notice of his bow. Mr. Alleyne tapped a finger on the correspondence and then flicked it towards him as if to say: “That’s all right: you can go.”
The man returned to the lower office and sat down again at his desk. He stared intently at the incomplete phrase: In no case shall the said Bernard Bodley be… and thought how strange it was that the last three words began with the same letter. The chief clerk began to hurry Miss Parker, saying she would never have the letters typed in time for post. The man listened to the clicking of the machine for a few minutes and then set to work to finish his copy. But his head was not clear and his mind wandered away to the glare and rattle of the public-house. It was a night for hot punches. He struggled on with his copy, but when the clock struck five he had still fourteen pages to write. Blast it! He couldn’t finish it in time. He longed to execrate aloud, to bring his fist down on something violently. He was so enraged that he wrote Bernard Bernard instead of Bernard Bodley and had to begin again on a clean sheet.
He felt strong enough to clear out the whole office singlehanded. His body ached to do something, to rush out and revel in violence. All the indignities of his life enraged him…. Could he ask the cashier privately for an advance? No, the cashier was no good, no damn good: he wouldn’t give an advance…. He knew where he would meet the boys: Leonard and O’Halloran and Nosey Flynn. The barometer of his emotional nature was set for a spell of riot.
His imagination had so abstracted him that his name was called twice before he answered. Mr. Alleyne and Miss Delacour were standing outside the counter and all the clerks had turn round in anticipation of something. The man got up from his desk. Mr. Alleyne began a tirade of abuse, saying that two letters were missing. The man answered that he knew nothing about them, that he had made a faithful copy. The tirade continued: it was so bitter and violent that the man could hardly restrain his fist from descending upon the head of the manikin before him:
“I know nothing about any other two letters,” he said stupidly.
“You–know–nothing. Of course you know nothing,” said Mr. Alleyne. “Tell me,” he added, glancing first for approval to the lady beside him, “do you take me for a fool? Do you think me an utter fool?”
The man glanced from the lady’s face to the little egg-shaped head and back again; and, almost before he was aware of it, his tongue had found a felicitous moment:
“I don’t think, sir,” he said, “that that’s a fair question to put to me.”
There was a pause in the very breathing of the clerks. Everyone was astounded (the author of the witticism no less than his neighbours) and Miss Delacour, who was a stout amiable person, began to smile broadly. Mr. Alleyne flushed to the hue of a wild rose and his mouth twitched with a dwarf s passion. He shook his fist in the man’s face till it seemed to vibrate like the knob of some electric machine:
“You impertinent ruffian! You impertinent ruffian! I’ll make short work of you! Wait till you see! You’ll apologise to me for your impertinence or you’ll quit the office instanter! You’ll quit this, I’m telling you, or you’ll apologise to me!”
He stood in a doorway opposite the office watching to see if the cashier would come out alone. All the clerks passed out and finally the cashier came out with the chief clerk. It was no use trying to say a word to him when he was with the chief clerk. The man felt that his position was bad enough. He had been obliged to offer an abject apology to Mr. Alleyne for his impertinence but he knew what a hornet’s nest the office would be for him. He could remember the way in which Mr. Alleyne had hounded little Peake out of the office in order to make room for his own nephew. He felt savage and thirsty and revengeful, annoyed with himself and with everyone else. Mr. Alleyne would never give him an hour’s rest; his life would be a hell to him. He had made a proper fool of himself this time. Could he not keep his tongue in his cheek? But they had never pulled together from the first, he and Mr. Alleyne, ever since the day Mr. Alleyne had overheard him mimicking his North of Ireland accent to amuse Higgins and Miss Parker: that had been the beginning of it. He might have tried Higgins for the money, but sure Higgins never had anything for himself. A man with two establishments to keep up, of course he couldn’t….
He felt his great body again aching for the comfort of the public-house. The fog had begun to chill him and he wondered could he touch Pat in O’Neill’s. He could not touch him for more than a bob — and a bob was no use. Yet he must get money somewhere or other: he had spent his last penny for the g.p. and soon it would be too late for getting money anywhere. Suddenly, as he was fingering his watch-chain, he thought of Terry Kelly’s pawn-office in Fleet Street. That was the dart! Why didn’t he think of it sooner?
He went through the narrow alley of Temple Bar quickly, muttering to himself that they could all go to hell because he was going to have a good night of it. The clerk in Terry Kelly’s said A crown! but the consignor held out for six shillings; and in the end the six shillings was allowed him literally. He came out of the pawn-office joyfully, making a little cylinder, of the coins between his thumb and fingers. In Westmoreland Street the footpaths were crowded with young men and women returning from business and ragged urchins ran here and there yelling out the names of the evening editions. The man passed through the crowd, looking on the spectacle generally with proud satisfaction and staring masterfully at the office-girls. His head was full of the noises of tram- gongs and swishing trolleys and his nose already sniffed the curling fumes punch. As he walked on he preconsidered the terms in which he would narrate the incident to the boys:
“So, I just looked at him — coolly, you know, and looked at her. Then I looked back at him again — taking my time, you know. ‘I don’t think that that’s a fair question to put to me,’ says I.”
Nosey Flynn was sitting up in his usual corner of Davy Byrne’s and, when he heard the story, he stood Farrington a half-one, saying it was as smart a thing as ever he heard. Farrington stood a drink in his turn. After a while O’Halloran and Paddy Leonard came in and the story was repeated to them. O’Halloran stood tailors of malt, hot, all round and told the story of the retort he had made to the chief clerk when he was in Callan’s of Fownes’s Street; but, as the retort was after the manner of the liberal shepherds in the eclogues, he had to admit that it was not as clever as Farrington’s retort. At this Farrington told the boys to polish off that and have another.
Just as they were naming their poisons who should come in but Higgins! Of course he had to join in with the others. The men asked him to give his version of it, and he did so with great vivacity for the sight of five small hot whiskies was very exhilarating. Everyone roared laughing when he showed the way in which Mr. Alleyne shook his fist in Farrington’s face. Then he imitated Farrington, saying, “And here was my nabs, as cool as you please,” while Farrington looked at the company out of his heavy dirty eyes, smiling and at times drawing forth stray drops of liquor from his moustache with the aid of his lower lip.
When that round was over there was a pause. O’Halloran had money but neither of the other two seemed to have any; so the whole party left the shop somewhat regretfully. At the corner of Duke Street Higgins and Nosey Flynn bevelled off to the left while the other three turned back towards the city. Rain was drizzling down on the cold streets and, when they reached the Ballast Office, Farrington suggested the Scotch House. The bar was full of men and loud with the noise of tongues and glasses. The three men pushed past the whining matchsellers at the door and formed a little party at the corner of the counter. They began to exchange stories. Leonard introduced them to a young fellow named Weathers who was performing at the Tivoli as an acrobat and knockabout artiste. Farrington stood a drink all round. Weathers said he would take a small Irish and Apollinaris. Farrington, who had definite notions of what was what, asked the boys would they have an Apollinaris too; but the boys told Tim to make theirs hot. The talk became theatrical. O’Halloran stood a round and then Farrington stood another round, Weathers protesting that the hospitality was too Irish. He promised to get them in behind the scenes and introduce them to some nice girls. O’Halloran said that he and Leonard would go, but that Farrington wouldn’t go because he was a married man; and Farrington’s heavy dirty eyes leered at the company in token that he understood he was being chaffed. Weathers made them all have just one little tincture at his expense and promised to meet them later on at Mulligan’s in Poolbeg Street.
When the Scotch House closed they went round to Mulligan’s. They went into the parlour at the back and O’Halloran ordered small hot specials all round. They were all beginning to feel mellow. Farrington was just standing another round when Weathers came back. Much to Farrington’s relief he drank a glass of bitter this time. Funds were getting low but they had enough to keep them going. Presently two young women with big hats and a young man in a check suit came in and sat at a table close by. Weathers saluted them and told the company that they were out of the Tivoli. Farrington’s eyes wandered at every moment in the direction of one of the young women. There was something striking in her appearance. An immense scarf of peacock-blue muslin was wound round her hat and knotted in a great bow under her chin; and she wore bright yellow gloves, reaching to the elbow. Farrington gazed admiringly at the plump arm which she moved very often and with much grace; and when, after a little time, she answered his gaze he admired still more her large dark brown eyes. The oblique staring expression in them fascinated him. She glanced at him once or twice and, when the party was leaving the room, she brushed against his chair and said “O, pardon!” in a London accent. He watched her leave the room in the hope that she would look back at him, but he was disappointed. He cursed his want of money and cursed all the rounds he had stood, particularly all the whiskies and Apolinaris which he had stood to Weathers. If there was one thing that he hated it was a sponge. He was so angry that he lost count of the conversation of his friends.
When Paddy Leonard called him he found that they were talking about feats of strength. Weathers was showing his biceps muscle to the company and boasting so much that the other two had called on Farrington to uphold the national honour. Farrington pulled up his sleeve accordingly and showed his biceps muscle to the company. The two arms were examined and compared and finally it was agreed to have a trial of strength. The table was cleared and the two men rested their elbows on it, clasping hands. When Paddy Leonard said “Go!” each was to try to bring down the other’s hand on to the table. Farrington looked very serious and determined.
The trial began. After about thirty seconds Weathers brought his opponent’s hand slowly down on to the table. Farrington’s dark wine-coloured face flushed darker still with anger and humiliation at having been defeated by such a stripling.
“You’re not to put the weight of your body behind it. Play fair,” he said.
“Who’s not playing fair?” said the other.
“Come on again. The two best out of three.”
The trial began again. The veins stood out on Farrington’s forehead, and the pallor of Weathers’ complexion changed to peony. Their hands and arms trembled under the stress. After a long struggle Weathers again brought his opponent’s hand slowly on to the table. There was a murmur of applause from the spectators. The curate, who was standing beside the table, nodded his red head towards the victor and said with stupid familiarity:
“Ah! that’s the knack!”
“What the hell do you know about it?” said Farrington fiercely, turning on the man. “What do you put in your gab for?”
“Sh, sh!” said O’Halloran, observing the violent expression of Farrington’s face. “Pony up, boys. We’ll have just one little smahan more and then we’ll be off.”
A very sullen-faced man stood at the corner of O’Connell Bridge waiting for the little Sandymount tram to take him home. He was full of smouldering anger and revengefulness. He felt humiliated and discontented; he did not even feel drunk; and he had only twopence in his pocket. He cursed everything. He had done for himself in the office, pawned his watch, spent all his money; and he had not even got drunk. He began to feel thirsty again and he longed to be back again in the hot reeking public-house. He had lost his reputation as a strong man, having been defeated twice by a mere boy. His heart swelled with fury and, when he thought of the woman in the big hat who had brushed against him and said Pardon! his fury nearly choked him.
His tram let him down at Shelbourne Road and he steered his great body along in the shadow of the wall of the barracks. He loathed returning to his home. When he went in by the side- door he found the kitchen empty and the kitchen fire nearly out. He bawled upstairs:
“Ada! Ada!”
His wife was a little sharp-faced woman who bullied her husband when he was sober and was bullied by him when he was drunk. They had five children. A little boy came running down the stairs.
“Who is that?” said the man, peering through the darkness.
“Me, pa.”
“Who are you? Charlie?”
“No, pa. Tom.”
“Where’s your mother?”
“She’s out at the chapel.”
“That’s right…. Did she think of leaving any dinner for me?”
“Yes, pa. I –“
“Light the lamp. What do you mean by having the place in darkness? Are the other children in bed?”
The man sat down heavily on one of the chairs while the little boy lit the lamp. He began to mimic his son’s flat accent, saying half to himself: “At the chapel. At the chapel, if you please!” When the lamp was lit he banged his fist on the table and shouted:
“What’s for my dinner?”
“I’m going… to cook it, pa,” said the little boy.
The man jumped up furiously and pointed to the fire.
“On that fire! You let the fire out! By God, I’ll teach you to do that again!”
He took a step to the door and seized the walking-stick which was standing behind it.
“I’ll teach you to let the fire out!” he said, rolling up his sleeve in order to give his arm free play.
The little boy cried “O, pa!” and ran whimpering round the table, but the man followed him and caught him by the coat. The little boy looked about him wildly but, seeing no way of escape, fell upon his knees.
“Now, you’ll let the fire out the next time!” said the man striking at him vigorously with the stick. “Take that, you little whelp!”
The boy uttered a squeal of pain as the stick cut his thigh. He clasped his hands together in the air and his voice shook with fright.
“O, pa!” he cried. “Don’t beat me, pa! And I’ll… I’ll say a Hail Mary for you…. I’ll say a Hail Mary for you, pa, if you don’t beat me…. I’ll say a Hail Mary….”
James Joyce stories
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