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 des
cended 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.
Then, without having himself announced, he made his way to the queen's apartments who, surprised at his unexpected arrival, received him with suspicion.
'Ma'am,' he asked, 'can'st thou tell me why I am king?'
The queen, mindful of a trick question, replied hesitantly: 'Thou art king to command.'
The king went and sat down in an armchair and let his head rest in his hands.
Finally, he had a minister called in.
'Your excellency, why am I king?' he asked.
'Thou art king by the grace of God, by birth and by the love of thy people, Your Majesty,' was the immediate reply.
'And why do the people love me?'
'Because thou art wise, Your Majesty.'
'How do they know I'm wise?'
'Your Majesty, when thou show'st thyself to the people even the smallest child, at once,
'My people always see me from a great distance.'
Without pausing for thought the minister then said: 'Regal is thy presence, Your Majesty, for thou art regal both in bearing and deportment. The impression thou makest upon thy people is of an almost divine eminence. By thy movements all feel how far above them thou art through refinement of thought.'
'So I am different from others?'
'Your Majesty, thou art a king.'
This answer, too, could not satisfy the king.
He spent sleepless nights and dozed his days away in musing.
And now, too, while slowly making his progress along the wide fields, he was engrossed in questions without finding a solution to a single one of these.
As nightfall approached, he set himself down, exhausted, on a rock by the side of the road.
The labourers passing by saluted him politely but not with uncommon reverence. Nobody cheered. One or two said: 'G'day to you, Sir.'
They do not see I am king because I'm wearing neither crown nor robes of so the minister has deceived me, the king thought, and he fell asleep from fatigue.
Suddenly, he woke with a start because of the rattling approach of a cart.
It was morning.
Shaken, the king got up, attempted to walk, but the cold of night had so stiffened his legs that he decided to ask the driver of the cart to run him back to the city.
Whoa there, my good man!' he cried.
Well?' the coachman asked, as he brought two bony horses unwillingly pulling a green, covered wagon, to a halt.
'Drive me to the city!' said the king.
'I've just come from there and I have no time to lose,' was the reply.
The king was about to make himself known when, painted in bright letters on the torn hood of the wagon, he saw: Karel de Man's Theatrical Company.
The coachman was already applying the whip to the horses when he restrained him, saying: 'My I would dearly like to make your company's might I ride along with I will reward you handsomely for it.'
'We can do with rich people, we can,' the coachman laughed. 'Get up on to the box but don't wake the artistes, for we have to perform tonight. And because you're rich, you can start by giving me something up front.'
The king, amused by this unusual familiarity, handed him a gold coin at once, stepped on to a wheel, heaved himself up next to the wagoner and a moment later the cart rattled on.
As they went along, the coachman told of how the company had performed in the court capital, where receipts had been paltry. And that's the king's fault, he said, for he knows nothing of art.
What plays does your company perform?'
'Royal Tragedies of course! Don't you know Karel de Man is the finest king in the country? Every child knows him!'
'I see,' said the king.
He had thought of going to the mayor in the next town in order to return to the capital in the mayor's coach, but during the ride he changed his plans.
This adventure was one of rare enchantment to him, the wagoner telling him tales never heard before, and strange smells, of paint, old cloths and sharp scent, arising from the wagon. The fields seemed wider to him than ever he had seen them before. The sun shone more cheerfully and the king would certainly have sung out loud had he known an ordinary song.
Impatiently, he awaited making Karel de Man's acquaintance. In him he would see that he was not the only regal human being!
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With gold coins, he urged the coachman into noisy song, hoping the actor would wake up, but the latter continued to sleep peacefully in the jolting cart.
At last some movement commenced under the hood and suddenly the leather covers fell down with a thud.
It was a peculiar spectacle the king then beheld. In the wagon, beneath faded rugs, heads resting on torn pillows, men and women were sleeping closely packed together.
A young chap, having jumped down on to the road, ordered the coachman to halt, uttering many strange-sounding words in so doing, words the pithy insults for which, in angry mood, he had often impotently sought in vain.
Who's that sitting up there?' asked the young man.
The wagoner jumped down from the box, whispered something into the questioner's ear, and then spoke loudly: 'A proper tleman! Might I present to our young
Just in time, the king read a name on a billboard in front of which the wagon had halted.
'And where are you going7' the actor asked.
'I'd like to join the company.'
'Ever acted before?'
'Royal parts,' replied the king.
'Which company?'
'Freelance.'
'Don't let the old'un hear that you do his livelihood,' the young man said, 'in that case he's sure not to take you on. You don t know what actors are like.'
The royal artiste who, at the collapse of the hood, had raised himself up a moment, stretching, was lying there snoring peacefully again, but the eldest of the ladies had smoothed down her rumpled clothing and she approached, smiling amiably. The young lead introduced her as the mere noble.
Following her, a slight young girl arrived, ingenue, so the young lead said, and it struck the king that the old woman who had to play the mother-parts behaved like an innocent slip of a thing while the girl busied herself with appearing to be a woman worldly wise.
The Dedalus Book of Dutch Fantasy Page 34