The Dedalus Book of Dutch Fantasy

by Richard Huijing

  Somewhere, I happened upon a number of dolls, some of which had the dimensions of a small child. They lay there, dumped down head first, naked, bums up obscenely, or on their backs with windswept hair and mud-soiled porcelain faces in which the glass eyes stared up at the sky. Their degeneration rendered them fearsomely alive, nymphomaniac smiles playing around their rosebud lips. All that was dead spoke a new language. What was human was dehumanised and called to a different, ghostly life: around me, a Salvador Dali landscape had turned into reality.

  Suddenly I recognised the tiles of our own terrace; this was where the camellias must have stood which, in winter, Fritz had always carefully packed in straw against the chill sea wind. The moss-covered terrace-lion was still standing. But of the house itself, no trace; only the foundations still lay there like a huge, square tombstone in the soil. I went and sat on the edge of the terrace and looked at the little stone lion. It sucked my gaze in towards it. Everything around that object became unimportant, shadowy, like in a dream where an insignificant thing can suddenly assume other proportions, as if it lights up from within and conveys a signal - though you cannot translate its meaning, cannot unravel it. The meaning remains just outside the border of your capacity to comprehend, and you struggle and struggle to understand it, and when you wake up nothing remains but a feeling of oppression. That's what befell me with that lion. It was of vital importance that I should understand something but I could not grasp it.

  I stared at the scar on my would turn white, the doctor had said; my skin would become perfect again; I would be able to begin a new life. As if a new skin and a new life were one and the same. And of course he had said that to all those washed up who still had a breath of air in their lungs. What else could the man do.

  A question forced itself upon me, a question I'd still managed to keep at a distance: now what? I could walk up the road, go somewhere, in this dress I had borrowed from my sister. But how could you escape from a house of air? A man without a face? For that was the most horrific: that I could not bring Fritz's face to mind; I always saw it before me without a mouth and without eyes, and flattened so decadently into an egg-shape, like a head in a nylon stocking.

  I walked back into the woods. The sun was shining more fiercely. It had to be afternoon already; my sister's dress stuck to my back with sweat. Where the road veered off, I came across the railway line. It was still lying there, intact, though the rails looked very rusty and unused. The overhead wiring hadn't been repaired yet. I could follow the railway line: you would always end up somewhere, in that case.

  Still, there were already signs of life in the woods, here and there. People were sitting on steps in the first spring sunshine, were scooping mud from their houses or running up a flag [we're back]; a man tipped out a bucket of water near the only tree still alive.

  Suddenly standing there, an old woman in a dressing gown who had come crawling up from a black hole. She stood there in front of her subsided house with behind her that forest, bleached white, full of splintered tree stumps, and she seemed to beckon me. I heard her voice like a rarefied hum. She held a tin can in her hand and in the other a paint brush with which she appeared to be making signals.

  'Have you come to help me?' she cried.

  Paint dripped down her lower arm but she did not seem to notice. She spoke monotonously without waiting for an answer, just as if something was unfolding within her, a meagre musical ditty.

  'Have you come to help me? Everything hurts - that's because of the damp in my bones. They took me somewhere, inside a big store. They put me in a room on my own. I was so hot and again so cold, too, that I went and lay between two mattresses, 'cause there were mattresses everywhere in that store - I set out on a recce later on. The elevators were crammed full of people, but I found some stairs down. I wanted to get back to my house. A captain wants to go down with his ship...'

  She stirred her can of paint.

  'You've got to speak up,' she said, 'I've gone deaf with the water.'

  She was treating the teetering door post, blobs of dried paint lying on the ground.

  A ga-ga old woman wielding a brush, one who was tackling chaos with a brush and wanted to bring the entire apocalyptic world back to life with thick strokes of hard-green paint. The shards of existence had dropped to earth in a muddle: dead lovers embraced in a muddied bath tub, a barge was grounded in the middle of some woods, my house had walls of added up even remotely any more.

  'This house was once my grandmother's,' she said. 'I used to come here when I was still a child. Sometimes we'd go along the railway track, collecting seeds which we put in a little can.' She pointed at hers.

  The spring sunshine, the minute paint splatters on her grey skin between the glistening hairs on her chin, a tatty sunhat on the straggly strands of white one for a photo in Life International, it suddenly coursed through me in a flash.

  'When I've lots of courage I put on my boots,' she said, 'and I go and take a look at the seedlings. Yes, there are those that come back, that take a chance, the bulbs living in the lowlands. They, too - they've got the courage, too.'

  On her pyjama legs, and cloaked in her mucky dressing gown, hanging open, she was walking out ahead of me when one of her slippers got stuck in the mud.

  'That dirt's only good for breeding snails and worms to fish with,' she said, disdainfully. She bent down to pick up her slipper. And as she straightened herself, groaning, a hand pressed to her side, she cast up her eyes at me. For the first time she seemed to see me, consciously. Her errant gaze focused on my face and she nodded her head several times, as if she saw something confirmed to herself.

  'Yes, I know,' she said, 'you'd rather be dead. But as long as you've still got this,' - and she tapped against her skull with the handle of the brush - 'all's not yet lost.'

  Then she shoved her brush and tin can into my hands and went and sat herself down in a broken armchair standing in the mudstained garden. A moment later I heard her snore.

  Jacob Israel de Haan

  Dedicated to Georges Eekhoud: there is nothing in the world more inhuman than to be a burgher and of all burgherdom that of Holland is the most inhuman possible. It would quite definitely sell itself were it not so unrespectable and were a bidder only to come forward. However, as I have grown progressively stronger in human living and the business of Art, I have hated this country as purely as can be. My solace is this, that these respectable little burgher-folk surely will go to their doom prematurely because of Christianity,

  Schiedam gin and Marxism. One of my sorrows is that I am a Dutch artist. Master Eekhoud, let us not be two burghers.

  1

  When the Devil did visit me last, he said, before the restless departure: 'Helenus, do not forget this: think of me often, for I love you, and think so strongly of me until you have the feeling that your body is black, without communion with the outside world. Wherever I may be, I shall then know that you do not forget me and know where you reside, and what your condition is. Will you do this?'

  'Yes,' I had said, trembling, I shall think of you always ... I cannot live without you.'

  2

  It was upon a late afternoon and I was sitting beside a bordered lawn, all red roses, in the sun and the scent, while I thought of myself. Then a boy in white came from the house bringing me a letter from France. Oh, it was from the Devil. I recognised this immediately by the finely formed manuscriptum and by the pentagram that sealed the letter red. The Devil wrote:

  'Dear boy, for a considerable time I have not become aware that you have thought strongly of me, perhaps perchance on occasion, yes, but such thoughts do not reach me. I do so regret this, for now I do not know how you are and where you live. In Amsterdam, I hope, and that you will receive this letter in good order. I must call upon your friendship, for I have made a wager with one of my enemies - alas, one only needs to be the Devil to have many of those - a wager that, with loving words, it would not be possible to lead my best friend among men astray from me. I
should dearly wish to win that wager, more for the intimate pleasure of it than for the gain. I have indicated you as being my best friend. Should you accept this indication, then write to me to that effect immediately and come, tomorrow if possible, to the Bradford Hotel, 17, Rue d'Arcade. Ask for the Viscount of Chelsea, the name I am travelling under. In that hotel you will also find the enemy to whose loving temptation you will be exposed. Be warned and do not trust in your loyalty to me, and do not think lightly of the enemy. He is someone of middling, easy capacities and therefore has great influence on people. You shall have to be strong and steadfast in order to withstand him. Do not pain me to my soul by succumbing, for I love you so dearly.

  3

  Shivering with emotion I wrote back at once, though I kept a firm grip on my handwriting of strong, stark, fine shapes.

  'Great Lord and Friend, indeed I have not often enough thought strongly and purposefully of thee. Forgive me this for the sake of your affection for me. Yes, happily I am still in Amsterdam and I shall leave for Paris by the night train. How happy I am that you believe me to be the most steadfast of your friends. I will not renounce you. And may I not think lightly of the enemy? Do you believe this to be the beginning of my defeat? On the contrary, I have felt myself grow stronger the more purely I have contempt for the people who, after all, are my natural enemies.

  Good Sire, you ask after my situation in Holland? I live, and this, to these countrymen who do not live, is sufficient to make things awkward for me. Yes, it is said here 'live and let live' though to them it means 'make much money and give another a little, too'. Moreover, most people here are addicted to religion, alcohol and marxism, to such an extent that one does not get to hear an artful word. On the other hand, these people have some national virtues, too. They are fittingly gullible and docile, so that anyone can be the leader of a political party, and thus everyone is. A favourite proverb is 'where one sheep goes, more will follow' and after genever, the Good Shepherd is the one most worshipped here. Indeed, there are regions where strong drink comes after the Shepherd as regards esteem. Thus, it is still bearable over here.

  From the money you gifted me I bought a diamond of pure kind.

  Until tomorrow. Be convinced of my steadfast affection.

  4

  While writing this, I thought: now I'll try to think of him so strongly that he can feel this and then he will know that I will remain true to him in the face of all. Fearful of loss, I brought my missive to the post myself. Afterwards, I did not enter our spacious garden again, the bordered lawn full of ruddy roses dripping dark, like blood, into the green. Loosely attired, lying on my back on my bed, I, overwrought, thought of the Devil. As though I were leaving my dwelling, ready for travel ... passed along some streets ... Oh, and crossed the shade-splendid canals ... the station ... the railwayline through Holland and Brabant ... other countries ... Paris ... the Bradford Hotel, familiar to me - thus I considered, loyal and attentively, the paths of travel that separated us. My head was being tired out to a point beyond thought ... it tingled behind my eyes, soft and pleasantly ... my body felt engulfed in black ... without communion with the outside world. My last known thought was: would he now feel that I thought of him sufficiently?

  5

  That next day, it rained over the wide city of Paris, dust-fine rain from a low sky without sun. Afraid of hostile influences, I had arrived at the hotel, trembling with fear. I kept my thoughts trained exactly on the Devil in order to be faithful to him, no matter what. Sharp-shy, erring in some of my words, I asked for the Viscount of Chelsea.

  'Are you from Holland?' the doorman said, quietly distinguished.

  'Yes ... yes ... I'm expected:

  The man had a boy come along to show me the way; I was so unsteady in my gait that this quick child kept an eye on me. My face was stretched to its deepest grain, it grimaced with snarkling pain. The boy-child looked at me and I thought: what a beauty that boy is. Oh, startled immediately afterwards, the way I was, I chased that thought away and I thought solely of Him.

  The Devil was sitting in the chamber writing thoughtful scriptures, for he did not look up at me. I said: 'Sire .. ' He shivered ... He approached me, and he did not touch me.

  What's the matter ... is something wrong? I came at once, did I not?'

  He was dull in his eyes.

  'I am going into town, my child ... no, we say nothing to one another now ... then I would influence you unfairly ... I've received your letter ... thank you ... and I have felt, too, that you did think of me, yesterday ... do not leave me.'

  'Must I wait here?'

  'Oh, no ... next door ... this one ... think as strongly as possible of me and do not succumb ... you know the enemy, indeed you do.'

  6

  I did not dare enter the other chamber, but later I did, thinking urgent-strongly of the Devil. Having entered, I saw the hostile man. It was Jesus-Christ, whom I knew at once. He sat, dressed agile in white, in front of an oak lectern. A broad book lay upon it, open, its pages white-pale without lettering. He had read in it by means of strenuous attention. Attentive were his dark-purposed eyes when he looked up at me. 'Baruch haba', he said. Thoughtless, without knowledge or resistance, I left Soton's fealty.

  Jesus had me sit opposite him and I became full of love and reverence, free from thoughts of the Devil. He spoke for my benefit and his conversation was like rippling spring water, simple in its insight, and strong. This I so enjoyed, and new verses trembled on my soul in the metre and manner of the old, splendid sonnets through which, in the past, I had sung of his love and suffering. While speaking, he moved his hands, all simplicity; in the main they lay for all to see on the arms of his chair. I saw that they were white without blemish, free from red punctures, like the letterless pages of the book in which he had been reading attentively. Reverently, I asked after the kind and value of that book. Lovingly, he put his hand on it: 'It's such an extraordinary you think the pages only white? When you learn to read it with great attention then you will discover and the better you yourself become, the better you read the things in the book.'

  'Might I learn to read in would You teach me7'

  'I cannot teach you ... you must do that yourself ... you must have patience and love.'

  The tone of his voice turned asper, hostile: 'There is also a red book, without letters like this white one ... it is in the possession of someone who wishes to deceive you ... and I tell you this, once you have begun to learn to read that red book, then this white one is lost to you ... eternally.'

  Then, sharply shocked, I thought of Soton whom I had abandoned so.

  7

  I felt that, present in the wide city of Paris, with me, in this room, he had continued in communion with me, and his suffering over my easy faithlessness touched me sorely. It had happened as, in his pain and knowledge of the world, he had predicted. I had abandoned his tenets for the easy persuasions of his enemy. His enemy, who spoke so unremarkably of humility and love of mankind. Oh, and Soton had so appreciated it in me that mine was a rockhard pride, without any sign of humiliating meekness, while I had never loved anyone to my own disadvantage. And wilfully I resisted the pernicious influences of Jesus. He had now taken the white book and, his attention strong, he read aloud from the clean, letterfree pages. But I did not listen to him any longer. On, and on, I thought of the Devil, hopefully so strongly that he could feel it.

  The reading voice that I felt to be hateful, became remote, lost, heard. Behind my eyes it tingled pleasantly and soft. My body felt black, without communion with the outside world and I desired so much that the Devil might feel my regained loyalty. While I hated the humane Jesus.

  8

  He stopped reading, and this I heard, likewise that he said:

  'You have not listened...'

  'No ... indeed I haven't ...'

  'You have thought of Soton ... he is your doom...'

  'Shameful enough that I have forgotten him for a single instant because of your unremarkab
le philanthropy.'

  'I have suffered so much abuse for the sake of mankind, as you know ... and I have forgiven everything...'

  'Because it's your nature and your profession ... yes, indeed.'

  I forgive you these words of contempt ... like I forgive everything ... of all things, love is the best ... I had wished to lead you to that understanding ... you are so sorely lost ... roaming, quite errant through selfishness and lovelessness ... and you do not wish to return to the right path...'

  'Don't reproach me with being loveless and selfish ... with as much reason I might reproach You with being humane and loving, those are two characteristics antipathetic to me.'

  'You are so far from the straight and narrow ...'

  'It is so immoral of You to try to influence me ... don't You know that ... why do You wish to push me down a path that is not do You still not know that for everyone his own path is the right at Your age one either knows or one never will .. '

  I see that I cannot help you ... in a moment Soton returns and then I will go ... I suffer so because of your do not think that I only suffered on the daily, I suffer for the suffering of every human being, and for everyone's erring ... just look.'