I noted down the details and casually asked one of the clerks if he had heard about a refuge for lepers set up recently near the town. The clerk, an old acquaintance of mine, looked at me as if he did not believe his own ears and burst out with a hearty laugh.
"He, he, he, I see the good doctor has come to pull my leg. What a joke, oh, please! A leper colony near Dworzanow! In our country, an oasis for the afflicted with a biblical disease! I'll be damned, that's a good joke! He, he, he! I wouldn't even dream of it."
His answer was more than clear. Nevertheless, wanting to make sure, I visited both hamlets. The result was obviously negative, neither of them resembled the black village, and their inhabitants had not dreamed of leprosy either . . .
So what was it? What was it? How am I to explain the bite on my cheek? How am I to explain the bloody dagger?...
Today is the 21St of June. Three weeks have passed since that dreadful afternoon. For twenty one days I have lived with my nerves on edge, in constant fear. I will not be able to stand it much longer. I will have to shoot myself... Or go mad...
I have searched the entire district within a few miles of the centre of the town - Black Hamlet is nowhere to be found...
There are moments when I wonder at my own foolishness in looking for this place. How can I think of finding it at all if I know that the supposed events took no longer than ten minutes and my flat is a good half hour journey on a tram to the nearest suburb? How can I look for the Black Hamlet in such circumstances? How can I? How can I?
And yet I am looking, I still am, and I tremble at the thought that one day I may find it...
25th June 1903
Yesterday I visited an old school-friend, a well-known psychiatrist, and told him the whole story. He was very interested and thought it was an exceptional case. He examined the dagger and the scar on my cheek very carefully. Then he examined me. Something did not seem right, for he shook his head several times. At the end he gave me his opinion:
"You will have to undergo intensive treatment. You've had a nervous breakdown of a very acute form. In such a state one is very open to suggestions; you must avoid these at all costs. Best thing would be to go for a long trip, perhaps France, or London... Ali, one more thing, most important: under no circumstances should you think about this whole crazy adventure. No analyses, no examinations, no inquiries. You are to have a good time, laugh a lot and love a lot, but do not think about it. You understand? Just do not think about it. The consequences may be fatal," he added seriously, with emphasis.
30th June 1903
I have not heeded my colleague's advice and have not gone anywhere. I can't, I can't. Something keeps me in this town and does not allow me to leave it. Instead, I went to see a dermatologist, Doctor Wiersza. He listened to my story patiently, examined the scar on my face, by now completely healed, and took a sample of my blood. He found nothing. That calmed me a little. A blood test, at any rate, was something positive.
The story of the dagger also interested him. He asked me to bring it to him to test the blood on the blade. I assisted him with the analysis. The result surprised us both. Wiersza concluded that the blood on the dagger showed signs of pathological changes. So, Mafra's organism was poisoned with some unknown bacteria...
10th July
Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha! Now I shall have to buy a wooden rattle myself! ...
This morning, irritated by a strong itch on my left breast, I opened my shirt and saw spreading through my flesh a wide, snow-white blemish ... Half an hour later I showed it to Doctor Wiersza.
He looked at me like at a vampire and moved a few steps away. Scared, the poor quack! I am not even surprised.
After a while he said in a muffled voice, avoiding my eyes:
"In some inexplicable way your fears have come true. You have the first stage of Lepra orientalis..."
I stumbled out of the consulting room, into the street.
"Out of my way, you despicable rabble! Keep away from me! Away! I'm a leper! I'm a leper!"
Shadow
It was a time when I began to see points of orientation visible in the murkiness of life’s intricate labyrinth of occurrences, when, attaching a skein of thread to the first clearly discernible fixture, I started to unreel it after me in my advancement toward the light.
I was planning a work on a large scale that would state, in the form of a treatise, the most up-to-date results of my inquiries into the meaning of life and its mysteries.
In a journey commenced long ago, and which I had been continuing with no sign of weariness on my part and with the fervour of a brand new march, this was to have been, as it wrere, the first stage. Covered with the dust of the roads of my pilgrimage, I paused for a short hour in a wayside inn to throw a quick glance over the ground I had already covered, curse the dense signs, take in the results, and then, breathing fresh air into my panting breast, move forward to further inquiries.
The title of my treatise was ‘Symbols in Nature’. At first glance this tide may seem too confining in relation to the scope of the work. In truth, however, it concerned that symbolism hidden not only in organic nature, but also its cryptic presence in the so-called ‘dead world,’ in objects, and, not the least, in the immaterial sphere - that is, in events and phenomena. Symbolism, seen in this manner, unites all of life's occurrences through great underground ties into an integrated system. Understood thus, symbolism presents itself as an expression of the common relationship of things.
In the execution of my views I employed an insight method of straightforward introspection rather than surrendering to evolutionary theories, which deal with nothing, after all, but general nature. Where coincidences came into play too difficult to predict so as to be considered a product of a conscious psyche, or where one’s attention was spellbound by obtuse visions, ‘spiritless’ objects - there, from the nature of things, I had to leave the beaten track and move into areas less grasped by the intellect, though no less real.
At the conclusion of this work I intended to present the genesis of symbolism in art and demonstrate art’s close relation-ship to life and nature. I perceived the principal difference in this, that symbolism in life is always impulsive, innocently unconstrained and unaware of itself, whereas its counterpart in art is, from the essence of things, a result intentional and aware of the developing creative work. Undoubtedly the artist, as a ‘son of the earth,’ with his childlike intuition and imagination, is also an impulsive expression of the pandemonium of existence, but nevertheless still an expression aware of itself, in which a potent intelligence collaborates. That is why I would call the symbolism of life ‘virginal’ in its innocent impulses, in its naive outpouring of sincerity. Artistic symbolism would have the same relation to it as logic to geometry, which is, to some extent, a realization of the measurements and functions of the earth.
The lion’s share of my work had to be carried out alone, without any assistance, as I moved into areas little known or completely unknown. This had its own undeniable fascination, like an exquisite wandering in a foreign city seen for the first time - but it also demanded much attentiveness and intense mention exertion on my part.
Feeling that absolute quiet was essential, I forsook the noisy capital and moved to a peaceful province several miles away. Craving seclusion and fearful that daily contact with people would have a negative effect upon my meditations, I rented at the edge of town, for my sole disposition, a small green house surrounded by a thick hedge of elder, privet and hagberry bushes.
I set up my quarters quickly, and encouraged by the undisturbed quiet about me, I diligently set to work. Because I felt good here, because my abode was comfortable and secluded, my work progressed at a brisk and efficient pace. When in the evenings, wearied by day-long exertions of thought, I would put aside my pen and stretch myself out in an old, felt arm-chair, the balmy fragrance of flowers and trees would flow in from the garden through my open window and the chirps of nightingales on nearby shrubs would fill my small
space.
The season was most wonderful. The July evenings, intoxicated with the warmth of the day, trembling with the lively shiver of distant lightning, disposed one to dreaming and enticed with sweet temptation to regions silvered by the rays of the moon.
I would gently turn the key in the gate and go for lengthy walks, to frequently return around midnight.
During one such outing, I ventured into unfamiliar wooded regions a considerable distance from my cottage. Though the moonlight was strong, I became lost, returning several times to the same spot. Finally a faint small light glimmering beyond the trees freed me from this trap, and I came to a winding path that connected farther up with the road leading to town. Cheered up, I advanced toward the safety of the dim light, and after fifteen minutes I found myself near a square house just at the edge of the forest I had successfully passed. Most probably it was the abode of a forester, I thought: a small homestead, fenced in from the path by a palisade. Only one window, facing the woods, was lit up; the rest of the building was plunged in darkness.
Drawn by this feeble brightness, I went off the path and sat down to rest, almost right under the window, on the trunk of a freshly-cut ash tree, the rays of the light falling upon me. Breathing out a sigh of relief after my forced march, I took out my pipe, filled and lit it, and then fixed my musing gaze on the illuminated quadrate window. With my eyes hypnotically riveted to a space contrasted against a dark background, I did not differentiate at first the details that were brought out by the light; only after a minute, when my eyes had adjusted, did I pay more attention.
A white cloth shaded the window tightly, beyond which an oval flame flickered in a dim night lamp. On this screen, meagrely infused with light, a few shadows were strongly delineated. Touched with childish curiosity, I began to study them. Suddenly, comprehending the outlines clearly, I nearly cried out in horror, instinctively jumping up from the log toward the window. In truth, what I saw on the curtain would have startled even the least impressionable viewer.
The silhouettes of three persons appeared on the cloth. At the far left of the screen protruded the bold profile of a man’s head, with an eagle nose and a wide, greatly backwards-inclining forehead. Level with his barely outlined torso were his distinctly contoured hands set in a shooting position on a rifle that the shadow lengthened, at a sharp angle, toward the far right side of the window . At that end, breaking off from the window frame and leaning strongly toward the murderous weapon, was the silhouette of the apparently stricken victim. This shadow was also of a man’s figure, but his facial features were unpleasant, almost frightening. The low forehead and misshapen nose, together with the malformed body, gave a poor, repellent impression. This unfortunate individual, seemingly hit in the heart, was doubled up violently forward, his left: hand clutching convulsively at his breast.
Between these two individuals was the black profile of a third man in a sitting position; the continually wavering shadow of his head was considerably lower than the other two shadows, occupying the bottom portion of the screen.
My first impulse, when I saw this horrible scene against the white background, was to rush inside and seize the murderer. But after a momentary reflection I controlled myself, and not lowering my eyes from the screen, I stood motionless, as if rooted to the ground. Slowly, calmer thoughts emerged, and I became aware of certain details that I had not noticed at first.
Above all, I could not understand why no sound had reached me from the interior before I had glanced at the window. That the picture before me presented a situation after the firing of the weapon was evident by the position of the figure on the right side; this person seemed to be lurching toward the ground after having been struck by a fatal shot; he was lurching, but - a peculiar thing - he was not falling: he appeared frozen when he should have been falling. Likewise, the other person - the murderer - was also frozen, his weapon held at chest level.
Both individuals appeared petrified in the postures of that tragic moment: the two shadows were a motionless black, with no sign of budging, as if bewitched.
There was something horrible in their stillness, in that lengthening of a single moment.
Only the shadow of the head below this strange twosome betrayed any sign of life: it wavered from time to time with a weak, trembling, but distinct movement. There was something sorrowful in this motion, something that spoke of boundless resignation before a done deed, something of the capitulation of a trampled insect.
All about ruled supreme quiet, the undisturbed quiet of a summer night; no voices came from the foreboding house, no sound interrupted this deep silence.
For a long time I looked with amazement at the puzzling shadows, waiting impatiently for a change in their arrangement. In vain. Those two figures were continually delineated in the same lines of that single moment, while the head of the third person moved continually in helpless sadness. Once, and only once, did this person spring to his feet and start to hurl himself toward the shooter, as if wanting to stop him in the act; but almost immediately he drew back his outstretched hands, dropping them inertly to his sides, and fell heavily into his previous sitting position. His shadow contracted, diminished, sinking near the line of the neck, and once again the pathetic head swung with hopelessness and sadness...
Thus passed a long eternal hour. Far in the east, the horizon began to turn grey; the sky took on indistinct, vague hues; golden stars changed to a pale yellow colour and expired. Dawn was approaching...
Suddenly the light in the window flared and immediately died out. The shadows vanished; the taunt screen became completely white, resembling a huge filmed-over eye.
I looked at my watch: it was three o’clock. Wearied by my long walk and the sleepless night I had spent, I returned to the path and finally, after half an hour, came upon the road that led me home.
Lowering the blind, I threw myself on my bed. Though I was dead tired, I could not fall asleep immediately; the time for sleep had passed; the dawn, already peering through the windows, began to annoy me. I lit a cigarette, and lying on my back, eyes closed, I reflected upon my recent adventure.
Scattered reflections slowly emerged, wandering with seeming independence, disoriented in their isolation. Connecting links issued forth from them, attempts at extracting similarities, thin threads of elusive relationships - finally distinct theories settled into well-formed lines, crystallized hypotheses outlined themselves in clear contours ...
Shadow! What a strange word! There’s something hushed in it, something soft and light, something weak, diluted to transparency, something misty and fine. Pale, almost in-discernible in its beginning and in its echoes, and, because of this, particularly ethereal. It moves imperceptibly, stealthily, to disappear unexpectedly. A horrible word.
The Greek word skia gives the impression of a thick dark curtain thrown over the light of day: something had been burning to then expire, something had flickered and darkened - one just sees the sooty smoke floating in lazy waves and smells the stench...
Doesn’t one hear in umbra, that most wonderful Latin word, the dull groan of a bell lowered into water, the distant echo of struck metal, a deathbed sigh? Something had been sounded to die out, something had been rung and, exhausted, dwindled away...
Umbra, Vombre, iombra - words that are sad, like everything that passes by to vanish in the distance...
‘The shadows of the dead’ - a strange, lengthy expression, dragging after it shrouds and timid aerial ghosts.
A shadow is the innocent projection of ourselves onto the sensory screen of the earth. A shadow is always individualized; one can only know it when it is isolated; for this it needs light, without which it cannot reveal its secret network. A shadow is the opposite of uniform darkness, which is evil and immoral.
From this arises the strange fear toward our own shadow; it can betray us, revealing at times things in ourselves we never knew. Doppelgängers are unpleasant visions.
Isn’t it interesting that a shadow can only draw
a profile? It traces out what is most distinct, it underlines fundamental, characteristic features; it is not concerned with the rest, discarding what can distract a less skilled observer. People in profile frequently look quite different than en face - they appear more representative, truer. In the en face position the expression of the face flows out to both of its sides and gets divided, diluted. A shadow’ can be a brilliant caricaturist.
Because of this, a shadow awakens a reflexive fear. No one likes to be spied upon.
A shadow is like the spirit of all things, projecting the most inner essence, opening up hidden meanings.
That’s why it is dark and gloomy, as any abyss - it belongs to the category of Dionysian visions; suffering is its neighbour. Under the protection of its sombre wings uncanny Lucifer has been grieving for ages, unfortunate Marsyas is consumed by his own defeat. Devils gladly take refuge in shadowy places.
A shadow' is the common standard upon which the living world converges with the so-called ‘dead world’: everything that exists has its own shadow. Its trait is uniplanar; it removes deceptive perspectives and pushes everything onto one surface, carrying out a
fabulous levelling, which it portrays in lines both curved and straight.
But, because it detects what is underneath, because it shows what is mysterious and unknown, a shadow is the enemy of daylight and daily conventions. A shadow is strongest at noon. When the sun beats down on the earth with its most fiery rays, so that everything is incandesced to whiteness and bright like the truth and appearing without a trace of doubt - it is then that a shadow throws its richest screens, cautioning against the apparent truth of Apollo’s rays. During a golden banquet flowing with sparkling wine, a shadow is a dark reproach emerging from secretive corners. Memento mori...
On the Hill of Roses Page 7
