The Man Who Was Born Again
Page 26
As everything that related to this mortal life appeared to me supremely unessential, I contented myself with a few spoonfuls of soup. It seemed to me as if I were standing apart and looking on from a distance at myself and my emotions. And yet this onlooker, who was my ego, was related by a subtle thread to my body and was aware of all its feelings and sensations, such as the coolness of the morning, hunger, and the dull compressed ache which precedes an evil event. And yet my queer consciousness of being outside myself was so strong that even my hands seemed strange to me. I looked at them with a curious emotion, as if I were looking at something familiar I had not seen for a long time. With the emotion was mingled regret that the soul should show so much ungrateful indifference in parting for ever with that which had so long been its home, and by means of whose senses it had built up its image of the mutability that surrounded it. Do what I might I could discover nothing impressive, nothing decisive in my impending departure from the familiar forms of earthly life. It seemed as if the body had ceased to take any part in the feelings of the soul, though its own feelings remained unchanged.
I was fully aware of the tragic significance of what was going on around me, but it could not affect me any more. Something was moving within me, and impelling me to speak to the poor humans about me and tell them that all these occurrences were only of secondary importance and did not really matter. But I realised that they could not possibly have understood me, and so I kept silent and aloof.
Much was happening around me. Women wept bitterly, and the tears with which they took leave of life mixed with the food they could not eat. The Marquis Carmignar was seated in a corner, and had been shaved and his hair dressed. A dried-up, sadly smiling old man read to a small circle of listeners the Consolationes Philosophize, of Boethius. A handsome young man in riding dress leaned against a pillar and hummed a melody which his enraptured eyes made plain was dear to him as a memory. He ceased only when an abbé who had been whispering with a group of ladies of various ages stepped up to him and begged him politely not to disturb the religious disposition of people preparing for death. Other men and women reclined on their straw mattresses in silent despair, sunk deep in themselves.
The prison barber came in. He made a sign to the warder, who had just received with many bows a tip from the Marquis. In a trembling voice the warder demanded that all present should sit in a row on a bench in the middle of the room and have their hair cut. This demand produced much loud sobbing, and one woman fainted away; but the toilet, as the proceeding was curtly called, went on quickly. The long tresses of the ladies were cut off carefully and stored in a box; the barber very politely begged of their recent owners that he might be allowed to keep them as useful in his trade, and gave a little flask of smelling salts to each of the ladies that gave him the permission.
My neck felt in turn the cold and clashing touch of the scissors as they crunched and cut my hair...
The sound of prayers now became louder and more earnest. At eight o’clock we heard the rumbling sound of drums, and the door was opened. A Commissaire with the scarf appeared at the head of a band of soldiers and read out, in a harsh and indifferent voice, name after name on the list of the condemned. Those who heard their names got up and placed themselves in a line to the left of the door. “Citizen Melchior Dronte!”
As I heard my name I made a bow to those who were evidently remaining behind and placed myself next to a tall strong man who was examining the escort with an expression of contempt, his jaw maliciously protruding. By his galloons and sleeve-band I knew him to be a major of De Broglie’s regiment.
“Stinking brutes, gutter-rabble!” he muttered to himself, and spat with such force that a hungry-looking little soldier jumped away in a fright.
A deformed man in grey clothes, who was one of those on the list, laughed to himself.
“The farce will soon be over,” he said. “And it has not been very amusing.”
We were led out of the cellar, some twenty of us, and we followed the guard up the flight of stairs and into a courtyard crowded with soldiers. Several open wagons were standing there, and we were told to take our places on the boards. A lad of about fifteen, acting under the supervision of a mounted sergeant, bound our hands behind our backs with solid leather straps. I noticed that the lad whispered something in the ear of each of his victims. When my turn came I felt his warm breath on my cold neck, and heard him breathe the words: “Pardon me.” I felt how hot and uneasy were the hands that tied my arms.
After much noise and confusion the wagons were at length loaded in an orderly manner with their human freight. An armed soldier got up by the side of the driver of each cart, and the heavy gate of the yard swung open with loud creaking. The streets were swarming with waiting people, and our wagons could proceed but slowly between the two rows they formed.
I looked on with astonishing serenity. In front of me, stiff and erect, sat the Marquis Carmignar, looking above the heads of the crowd; beside him sat the major of De Broglie’s regiment, whose angrily-inclined red head made him look like an irritated bull. On the bench beside him cowered an old man, with a white bristle, a wrinkled face, and rolling eyes pitiably disturbed. He was ceaselessly repeating to himself a magic formulae.
“O Ashtaroth,” he muttered, “O Typhon, O ye Seven Fiery Dragons, thou, O Keeper of the seal, hurry hither to help me! let flames fall on them, let the earth open its entrails to swallow them, but carry me
The words became meaningless, and then he wound up with a ghastly chuckle of triumph and was silent. He was at last convinced of the unfailing effect of his incantation.
I turned my head with difficulty to the bench at my back, and saw an elderly nun with brick-red spots flaming on her cheeks. She was dressed in black and incessantly praying, her eyes turned to heaven. Next to this woman, who was preparing herself with glittering eyes for her martyrdom, sat a great fat baker. He was all covered with white meal and shook like a jelly; his swollen eyes stared in mortal terror. His immense belly wobbled to and fro at every lurch of the wagon.
I saw everything with exaggerated distinctness. Not the slightest detail escaped me. I noticed a loose button on the Marquis’s coat, an inflamed pimple on the major’s neck. The vest of my neighbour bore traces of eggs, and from time to time the medallion on the nun’s rosary struck the woodwork of the wagon with a clang.
As my poor mortal body approached the inevitable end it seemed to do all it could to disturb the serenity of my soul and lure it away from eternity by trivial preoccupations. A natural need, for whose relief I had no more occasion, bothered me greatly. An old rheumatism that had long ceased to afflict me set in once more in my right hip, and made me suffer at each jolt of the cart. Greater than this was the fear of death as it was felt by my body. It found expression in violent pains in the stomach, and at length resulted in a drop of dew falling from my forehead. Cold perspiration, the perspiration of death.
But I stood above, or rather aside, from these feelings, and in spite of their insistence they could not project themselves into the full light of my consciousness. A sharp and decisive separation had taken place between body and soul, and the soul saw with joy that no earthly sensation would encumber it on its way hence.
The crowd began to sing a hymn that was strange to me; thousands of voices joined in it. The tune was genuinely inspiring. I could not distinguish any of the words, except fatherland, tyranny and the like. But it produced a strong impression on me. It was a genuine, noble and fierce child of the times, and the thrilling music seemed to me to be full of promise.
The people at the windows along the route also joined in the song with clear, spirited voices and waved their handkerchiefs. Our wagon horses, a chestnut and a black one, neighed with excitement, and began to prance and nod their heads in cadence with the powerful melody as it rose to the skies, glowing and storming. Even the driver, a gloomy-looking man, and the young soldier beside him sang the anthem - for truly it was an anthem - in loud voices.
Then the whole line of wagons stopped with a jerk.
We had arrived at the hideous square in which, a few days ago, I had my discussion on the French nation with the young officer, and once more my eyes met the lean, brownish-red engine of destruction that towered above all the heads in its awful simplicity.
In the same moment the clouds were tom asunder and a pale ray of sunlight fell with a dull glitter on the slanting knife that hung, up above, under the crossbeam.
“How soon it will be over,” I thought, as I recalled many a moment of impatience in my former life.
We were helped out of the wagons. The crowd grew quiet. There was only the scarcely perceptible, thousand-mouthed murmur that betrays the strained expectation of a large assembly of human beings. We heard no words of abuse and many eyes looked on with sympathy. The attitude of the crowd seemed to indicate that wholesale murder would soon have an end.
My limbs were stiff with huddling so long in the cold morning. My physical need once more convulsively asserted itself, and as I walked I felt acutely the pain in my right hip.
I saw׳ people appear on the platform and move about. The blade fell with a dull thud and was raised again. The crimson flow began. Something struck the boards of the scaffold with a hollow boom.
My body’s fear almost got the upper hand. One thought in me pushed forward, expanded: to attempt something or other to save myself; to cry out, to beseech, to break through the crowd, to burst my bonds...
Then, of a sudden, I saw Fangerle!
All shrivelled like a bat he was. Fangerle, on the crossbeam of a lantern-post, horribly distorting his ugly face, his evil yellow eyes fixed on me. Instead of a broad-brimmed hat a red Phrygian cap was on his scalp. His eyes were like two wasps, alive and crawling about in the hollows of his head.
I shut my eyes. Thenceforward my will had the upper hand.
“Return to the abyss,” I said.
Mustering all my strength I opened my eyes again. The apparition was gone, the lamp-post was empty.
A soldier took me by the arm, almost timidly. Gently he pushed me forward. I saw the thick blood running in a sluggish stream down the scaffold.
The Marquis Carmignar walked up the short slippery ladder immediately before me. Two bare-armed men seized him, strapped him to the board, and upset it. The upper piece of wood descended, pinning down his neck.
Swish! - boom - grr - boom...
A wheezing sound came from his beheaded neck. The feet, well bred even in death, beat the boards gently; the body moved in the straps, as if it were trying to find a more convenient position, and was still. The soaked straps were unfastened and they turned him on one side; the gold snuff-box rolled on the boards, the little lid opened and the brown snuff scattered. A hand quickly grabbed at the glistening thing.
I was the next. I ascended the steps.
A hand gently propped me up as I slipped, saving me from a fall. I saw a serious, fine-cut face. It was Samson, the executioner. He invited me forward with a polite gesture. Behind him stood the red-bristled monster, his chief assistant.
Pictures came and went like lightning through my brain. The arm with the executioner’s sword in the haunted hall of Krottenriede, the snuff-box with the singing bird, the tapers burning in a room hung with black, the glimmer of Aglaia’s funeral wreath, the little Death with the hourglass and scythe coming out of the old clock, Bavarian Haymon dressed as an Amicist!... Like lightning, countless pictures passing.
A strong hand took me by the arm. Faces glided past me. I stood against the board. The warm smell of blood rose tickling and nauseating in my nose. Thin straps of leather tied down my shoulders and legs. I fell forward. I heard a creaking sound; my throat descended painfully, striking a wooden crescent.
I thought: Now the knife will cut through my neck, sawdust will fly into my eyes, my mouth, my nostrils...
Wet wood descended on the back of my neck.
Iza Bekchi! Iza Bekchi!
With all my force I thought of Evli. I drew him towards me.
Close in front of me I saw his face - his mouth, as if he was about to kiss me - his kind dark eyes, like two black suns. Their look embraced me with infinite love and promise.
I thought no longer. Now that I saw him I drew in his looks. I absorbed his being into me...
Dazzling, golden rays shot out of his eyes - cut through me, transpierced me with fire - a fire of gold.
But still I saw the face, distinctly, clearly, dwindling by degrees until it was a mere speck, yet remained recognisable.
I opened my mouth, I felt dry wooden splinters, moist sawdust
Then it was night - a rush of air - the noise of wind - a painful rending asunder - a thread cut in twain...
Chapter Fourty Seven
I was outside my body.
My corpse lay on the guillotine in its tattered brown coat, the shirt-collar soaked in blood. In spite of the tight straps it was stretching itself violently. Fountains of blood spurted from the neck. The head lay in the basket, the eyes were wide open. The face bore a smile.
The people gathered round the scaffold looked on in silence. The boards were emptied, and prepared for a new victim. The wretch who had called for Ashtaroth and the Fire Dragons was pushed up the stairs. He struggled with all his might, kicked and bit desperately like an animal. He would not... To the whole scene I was quite indifferent.
For now I was rising on the air, gliding over a crowd of heads. Without making any effort or meeting any resistance I floated through walls and window-panes, propelled by an unknown force.
Somehow I had eyes and saw everything. I heard but I did not feel. Nor did I think. I was consciousness, sheer and simple. I had no difficulty in recognising everything that went flying past me. I felt neither pleasure nor pain, cold, heat, sound, light; but I was traversed a hundredfold by strange vibrations, phenomena for which human language has no name, sensations produced by meeting beings, invisible and unknown to men.
I was a form like those vitreous transparent bodies which, if looked at for some time by a human eye, dwindle into a perfectly pure, blue vacuum. I was not a body. Nor was I nothing. I was a spirit, among many other spirits that floated in space. But I had consciousness. I was aware of my ego. and I had a purpose and a desire.
I sought to find a new dwelling for myself, a new dwelling equipped with the instruments of sense so that I might receive from without and give back what comes from within: thoughts in the garb of words. I was seeking for a human body. I carried in me the tiny image of a noble, Godlike face, the reflection of which I had taken into the infinite when I left my body at its destruction. This image was the starting-point of consciousness and of memory.
The will for reincarnation was the one impulse that dominated me. Subject to inscrutable laws formulated before the beginning of existence, before the beginning of mutability, I strove towards the fulfilment of my quest, devoid of all those feelings that men call impatience, expectation or hope.
For me Time was not: there was for me no distance, no obstacle.
Forces to which I gave myself away willingly were lifting me, causing me to descend, to rise, to move or to stay...
&nbs
p; I was immovable in my consciousness.
Everything was revealed to me, nothing was concealed from me, neither below nor above. The wind blew through me, the rain fell through me. I had none of the qualities that are inherent in the things of space. I was large and small, inside and outside, far and near.
I beheld sunsets over solitary seas, mountain-climbers at the foot of ice rifts, blue flowers slowly withering, spirits moving in watery deeps, beings that lived in crystals, red and yellow sandstones, fruitful mire generating the strangest of creatures, dwarfs that appeared as specks to a human eye, winged beings that rode and rollicked on the winds, sleepers in bed infested with pain and sin as with vermin, men exhaling evil like a stream of poisoned air. Past all of these I was wafted.
I saw herds of beasts in the wide steppes, in the air, in the crevasses of the earth, and in great waters; small, crawling, flying, running beasts, covered with hair, feathers, bristle or scales - living and seeking. They attracted me, for they were alive. They bred their young, suckled them and multiplied a thousandfold. They attracted me, for they had living bodies, warm bodies. But I bore in me a human image and did not follow the example of the other spirits, that lay in wait over those living bodies as new life was born in them.
I sought the presence of human beings. I was impelled towards them by an overwhelming influence.
It was well to be among humans. I clung to their company. I was with them, in them. I glided through them and stayed with them. I lived with them. I felt towards them as one may feel towards a country that looks like home.... I find myself using such similes, though the reality is very different.
Again and again they went about to produce new life. They concealed themselves from others and became one. The beings which always surround men, though invisibly, receded before the divine spark that came from them, however empty and poor, however sinful and feeble. But in this act they unleashed the ancient forces of Eternity, and became greater and more powerful than all other beings.