B007P4V3G4 EBOK (49 page)

One evening at the window he saw black clouds scurrying in
the dark; bare branches were being tugged at and the lantern light
on the bridge moved up and down. It was chill; he smelled hail. He
drew the curtains; he heard the swishing of the branches outside.
Seated near the lamp he opened a book on stars, a page full of
figures, numbers without end. And he read:

A white woman, on the eve of Spring, sat in the half light of
birch trees on a hill by the sea. The trees were motionless. A light
flickered in the sky, the sea lay down below in the mist: not a
murmur. Beside each tree a strand of vapour rose up, a shape with
its arms crossed in front of the head. The strands entwined, the
shapes moved from one tree to the next. The leaves rustled, the
vapours trembled, a glistening descended. Down below by the sea
a voice cried out, a form stood there, a wave flopped on to the
beach. The white woman held her hands in front of her face and
descended. Then it was night and black and nothing could be
heard except for a wave breaking.

His hands were stiff, his feet cold. He had the feeling that there
was ice in the room, strange at this time of year. And casting up
his gaze from the page beneath the lamp light he discerned the
white in front of the curtain of one of the rear windows; he only
saw the white of a garment and of a foot stretched out in front. And when another foot had appeared he straightened up and saw
the figure had approached to where the lamp light fell. He knew
this was no human being, no woman. He rose up and saw the face
but, because of the moisture before his eyes, he was only able to
discern something deep and dark swathed in white as white as
snow. She drew closer and she raised a hand; he heard a voice and
at this sound he felt the warmth of tears.

The time has not yet come, she said, perhaps later, then shall the
time be. She sat down on the floor in the light of the lamp, hands
folded in her lap.

He was a modest man, he dared not ask who she was and
whence she had come. But the darkness of her eyes opened to him
so he could understand all that she said, and though tears still slid
down his cheeks he sat quietly at the sound of her voice.

You hear that I can speak, hence I must be an 'I' like every other
creature but it has been a long time since I have known this. I also
have memories of a time long before this, when I existed I don't
know where. Perhaps it was the place of sorrows for when I think
of this from a distance I hear sighing, moaning, weeping, everywhere around, as if multitudes throng and plead in the darkness
and one voice sounds that might be mine. In the silences I have
heard so much weeping that the thing I long for most is that
sound. And at times I have thought without end
and worse than all the weeping. Without those thoughts I could
never have believed that I might be a human being, not here, no,
not here or there, a human being who must be or who has been.
Then I see an image before my eyes and it is as if the sun begins; I
no longer ask whether it's true or not. I cannot speak of this, that
once I may have been a human being, cast out young from
mankind and always yearning, always hearing the crying, crying
here, crying there, crying within my innermost being.

Her voice became high and plaintive: Why is it that it is so cold
here? Tomorrow I must be here, then shall the time be, why so
cold?

She rose and had rapidly disappeared in the darkness of the curtain.

Then he heard feet on the steps of the stairs: the maid servants
were going to bed. He opened the curtain at the front, saw a hail
stone strike the window, the black branches swishing in front
of the lantern, but his vision was blurred by the tears in his
eyes.

And again in the evening he sat beneath the lamp with his head
bent over the book, reading about stars, their courses and distances.
And again he suddenly felt the cold to be present there, and
casting up his gaze he again saw the whiteness in front of the dark
wall. The figure approached more rapidly and when she was sitting
he made out the whiteness of the hands and the feet; they seemed
hard yet without weight, white as hail without a sheen. She spoke:
Dusk is where I have been waiting and no sheen can be there. We
acquire sheen when we touch something, something standing on a
foundation, here or yonder. The thought has asked whether this is
why all the weeping must be. I know I long to touch the world
and people but from the depths I must weep that this should
happen. Why the fear? We both know that we cry and hear crying
everywhere and that we all wish to come. We know the one
cannot be without the other and that there must be pain when two
meet together. Not two dust specks together without sorrow. That
is where warm and cold, light and dark begin; there fear commences. Read in the book whether it says anything about life;
mankind thinks of nothing else, after all. Is it this for which we
hear sighing, weeping and wailing? Why we call out, want, fear? Is
this why the tears fall from your eyes? That will be it, for from afar
I recall something about tears. It was dusk, there were trees, tears
falling hence upon me. There were eyes all around and voices that
sobbed. I think I was young then. But perhaps I remember because
I long so, and no longer know yea or nay.

And again the tone of her voice rose to a high plaint: Cold,
cold, it is becoming colder than before. I knew it when I longed for
this house.

And when he had wiped the tears she was no longer there. He
heard stumbling and whispering on the stairs; he quickly opened
the door and he saw the two maids going up slowly, pinafores
held up to their faces. Reaching the window he drew the curtain
aside. There was nothing to be seen outside but the lantern
through the branches, a cloud, a star. And that it was cold, this he
felt too, colder than at other times on such spring evenings. He sat
down again and pondered, but all that he thought was sorrow
without end.

Next evening, at the window, he saw the thinnest crescent of
the new moon floating in a vapour, its light already yellow
however. When the young moon gleams clearly, he thought, fine
weather is in the offing. He looked at the houses beyond the branches, all their doors closed and a lamp lit here and there. He
noticed he was lonely, he sighed and drew the curtains. A servant
knocked; she asked whether he had called, was there anything he
wanted. Sir's so quiet, she said, it's upsetting us. No matter how
softly you speak to yourself it can be heard downstairs. No, he
said, your ears deceive you, I'm not talking with the books.

Silent, she lit the lamp and he went and sat down with the book
and waited. The page turned over slowly.

And when the white woman was sitting there on the floor with
her head raised up to him he looked straight into her eyes; there
was something there deep down, something with a blue glow.
About her face and hands there was something that moved.

Why cry and wait? she asked. After all, I have heard it ages ago,
I have been driven here a long time. I know it because I wake up
and notice how far the darkness is from the light, how much night
differs from day. Of yesterday's event I know about sitting here
and how much time has passed between then and now. Something
has gone away, something has slipped down and I clearly remember
that yesterday there were cries and I myself cried too. Today I
have understood that there has been a moment, now past. And
today it was full of rumours, many voices, many sobs, and
weeping, more than I could hear. I don't know whether the waiting
is here or there; I don't know whether it is I who waits or someone
else. That is new and strange, the thought of another; it makes me
soft, small, cold. It has hurt in my eyes and within me there is
something: that tomorrow I shall know the great fear, darkness
gaping open.

She laid down her head on the floor and wailed with a feeble
sound, monotonously. Bending over her, he listened as his tears
fell; he heard her softly asking each time: Why is it so dark? Why
here? Why here? Why so dark?

He rose upright for he could not bear it; he covered his ears. But
she had gone: there was only the crepuscular light and the floor
was empty.

There was a knock on the door; he went and saw the two
servants, each with a tip of her pinafore in her hand. Did Sir call?
asked the one and she trembled. Did Sir know how late the hour
is? asked the other pleadingly; we're so afraid. He did not know
what to say. But when they continued to stand there he said: Now
just you go to bed.

The following evening rain was falling silently, the cobbles shone near the bridge, the sky was drab. Behind a window, beyond
the lantern a reddish light gleamed. Past that house it was dark
with trees and a dog began to howl there, high and long.
Occasionally, when the howling grew fainter, it had the deep sound
of a big dog, then it began afresh, helpless, intolerable. A figure,
slowly mounting the bridge, halted and then descended into the
dark of the trees. There was a sigh. He wondered why he stood
here so often, watching, always in the direction of the bridge,
watching the dark passage beneath the arch and its twin reflection
on the canal water. The dog suddenly ceased howling; not a soul
to be seen.

He drew the curtains, lit the lamp and took up the book. While
reading he looked round repeatedly but there was no one. And he
read, page after page, until he noticed he had been sitting there a
long time. He thought: Has it been a delusion of the senses? He
thought even more, about this and other lives, about near and far,
about now and tomorrow. And when he looked up she was sitting
on the floor. She kept her white hands clenched tight together. Her
voice sounded feeble and indistinct, tired, without hope: I do not
know why I come here; I do not know where I must go and what I
must think. I want to but I dare not. I have had peace here; it has
been a moment and now another must come. Forget me; I shall
forget you too.

Her head fell forwards; she sobbed noiselessly. And he did too,
hands in front of his mouth.

Then he heard different sobs; he looked and saw the open book
on the table, the floor without the whiteness that had been there.
There was loud urgent knocking on the door; he answered hastily.
The two maid servants were standing there holding on to one
another. Sir, Sir, oh merciful heavens, Sir! cried the one, and the
other hid her face. But they touched him and became quiet. The
one said: we heard Sir talking with something worse than we are
capable of thinking. Quiet yourselves, he replied, go to bed and
good night. They went up the stairs, slowly, dabbing their eyes.

He drew back the curtains and looked out into the night again.
It was quiet. But beyond the bridge there was the small sound of a
child just beginning to bawl. The branches moved in the wind. He
mused as to what it was: something worse than one was capable of
thinking; he mused whether truly he had seen anything at all.

Willem Schurmann

It was a cheerful summer's day but the king felt in sombre mood.

Slowly he passed along wide fields, far from the city, without
accounting to himself for the fact that he had been roaming for
hours already. He saw toiling labourers in the fields, and something
like self-reproach for never having worked rose up in him. How
wonderful it must be to rest after a day of intense toil, he thought,
but he realised that he would never be capable of such heavy
physical work for his head reeled even when he only bent down
for a moment.

Used to haughtily making his way upright, he could not imagine
a hunched posture without a feeling of humiliation and effort.

He had never humiliated himself nor ever made an effort.

His parents had never demanded anything from him that even
smacked of subservience and the wise teachers who had provided
his upbringing had themselves solved all the difficult problems
they had set him.

Only for the results of their investigations had the wise ones
requested his attention; he knew the solutions to all the sums, but
how these were done he did not know.

He was said to be a wise king and he did not trouble himself
about the question as to why he had earned that name, but one
day, when he was sitting at a window in his palace, bored, he had
suddenly become restless in the silence that none of his courtiers
dared disturb.

He looked at the turrets of distant castles and attempted to
laugh off his restlessness. Why am I restless? he thought.

Yonder live my subjects who do everything I order them to.
They would gladly sacrifice their lives for I am their
king.

But why am I their king and why are they loyal to me?

It's perfectly possible that they hate me .. .

The sun went to its slumbers, the gold slipped from the sky and
still he sat there peering out ahead of him, lost in thought.