by Unknown
Often in the dead of winter of the Southern Hemisphere I have tried to push westward across the South Pole and tackle those two hundred paces separating Cape Horn from Van Diemen’s Land and New Holland, with no care for how I might return, daring the ice cap to close in upon me like a coffin lid, stepping with wild abandon from iceberg to iceberg, oblivious to the gaping jaws of the frozen deep. And all for naught; New Holland still eludes me. Each time I returned to Lombok and sat down on its tip, and wept again with my face turned to the south and to the east, rattling the gates of my prison.
I finally lifted myself up by my bootstraps, as it were, and strode with a heavy heart back into the interior of Asia. I traversed it then, ever following the dawn breaking in the west, and that same night arrived in Thebes at the entrance to the cave I’d selected just the afternoon of the day before.
As soon as I was somewhat rested and day broke over Europe, I made it my first order of business to go about acquiring the necessities of life. First, I needed a pair of brake-shoes; for I had learnt just how uncomfortable it could be to have no means of curtailing my step (other than to remove my boots) if, say, I wanted to take a closer look at some nearby object. A pair of bedroom slippers pulled on over the boots fitted the bill, just as I hoped they would, and later I took to carrying two pairs with me, for I was often obliged to kick off the ones I had on without time enough to retrieve them whenever, in the course of my botanical exploits, lions, humans or hyenas took me by surprise. My fine timepiece served me well as an excellent chronometer on these short jaunts. In addition, I needed a sextant, a few geometric instruments and books.
In order to procure the latter, I paid several uneasy visits to Paris and London, where I was shrouded by a fortuitous fog. Once the meagre remains of my magical money had been spent, I offered payment in the form of easy-to-find specimens of African ivory, whereby I was naturally obliged to pick out the smaller portable teeth. Soon I had furnished and equipped myself with all that I needed, and I immediately commenced my new life as an independent naturalist.
I criss-crossed the globe, now gauging its altitudes, now measuring the temperature of its springs and of the air above, now observing fauna, now examining flora; I rushed from the Equator to the North Pole, from one region to another, comparing my impressions and experiences. The eggs of the African ostrich or the northern seabird as well as fruits, particularly those of the tropical palm tree and bananas, served as my common fare. As a surrogate for happiness I had nicotine, and in place of human compassion and companionship I had the love of a faithful poodle who watched over my cave in the Theban Hills, and, when I returned home laden with new treasures, leapt at me for joy and consoled me with the human sense that I was not alone on this earth. But one more adventure was still to bring me back among humankind.
XI
Once, when I lingered on shore of the frozen north, having braked my boots to collect lichen and algae, a polar bear suddenly stepped out from behind a boulder and caught me unawares. I intended, after tossing away my slippers, to step over to a nearby island to which a naked rock jutting up out of the ocean offered access. With one foot I landed firmly on the rock, and went tumbling on its far side into the sea, for unbeknownst to me the slipper had remained attached to my other boot.
The icy chill engulfed me and, struggling to stay afloat, I barely managed to save my life; as soon as I reached dry land, I ran as quickly as I could towards the Libyan desert to dry off in the sun. But, once exposed to the full force of its powerful rays, I was burnt so badly on top of my head that I hurried back northward in an acutely feverish state. I sought by means of vigorous exercise to improve my condition, and ran with a quick and shaky step from west to east and back again from east to west. Thus I stumbled from broad daylight into darkest night, from summer swelter into the icy dead of winter.
I have no idea how long I kept scurrying about in this fashion across the surface of the globe. A burning fever ran like lava in my veins; terrified, I felt myself fast losing consciousness. To add to my troubles, in the course of such careless globe-trotting I happened to stamp on someone’s foot. I must have hurt him badly, for I received a mighty shove and I collapsed in a swoon.
When I came to again, I found myself comfortably ensconced in a fine bed that stood among other beds in a spacious and stately hall. Someone was seated at my feet; people wandered through the hall from one bed to the next. They came to my bed and discussed my case. They referred to me, however, as Number 12, even though I discovered on the wall at my feet a black marble tablet on which, clearly inscribed in gold letters – it was no illusion, I could read it clearly – there was my name
PETER SCHLEMIEL
spelt correctly. On the tablet beneath my name there were another two rows of letters, but I was far too weak to make any sense of them, and I shut my eyes again. I heard a voice reading aloud from a document concerning said Peter Schlemiel, but was unable to follow the words; I noticed a kindly-looking gentleman and a very beautiful lady in black approach my bed. The faces were not altogether strange to me, and yet I could not place them.
In a little while I regained consciousness. I was identified as Number 12, and because of his long beard, Number 12 was taken for a Jew, though he was not treated any the worse for it. The fact that he had no shadow appeared to have gone unnoticed. My boots, I was assured, along with everything else found on my person when they brought me here, were kept under lock and key and would be returned to me as soon as I was well enough to leave. The place where I lay sick was called the SCHLEMILIUM; the text concerning Peter Schlemiel read aloud daily was an exhortation to pray for his welfare as the founder and benefactor of this charitable institution. The kindly gentleman was none other than Bendel, the lovely lady was Mina.
I lay there convalescing incognito, and learnt more interesting facts: the locale was Bendel’s native town; here, with what was left of my accursed gold, he had founded and taken over the direction of this hospital in my memory, where poor unfortunates hallowed my name. Mina was a widow; criminal proceedings had cost Mr Rascal his life, and her the remains of her fortune. Her parents were deceased. She lived here as a God-fearing widow practising daily acts of charity.
On one occasion I happened to overhear the following conversation between her and Mr Bendel at the bedside of Number 12: ‘But why, kind lady, must you continuously expose yourself to the evil humours of this place? Has fate been so hard on you that you wish to die?’
‘Not at all, Mr Bendel, ever since I dreamt that long-drawn-out dream of mine to the end and reawakened to myself, I’ve been quite well; since then I no longer wish for and no longer fear death. I now think pleasantly of the past and the future. Is it not also with the same quiet inner contentment that you now serve your old master and friend in such a blessed manner?’
‘Yes, indeed, thank God, kind lady. We’ve been through strange and wondrous things; unwittingly we sipped our fill of joy and bitter woe from the cup of life. And now that it’s empty, one might well be tempted to believe that all that was only a test, and that, fortified with the wisdom of experience, we stand before the real beginning. This is the real beginning, and though we do not wish the return of past delusions, we are nevertheless happy to have lived it as it was. And at this moment I also feel confident that, wherever he is, our old friend must be doing better than before.’
‘I feel it too,’ replied the lovely widow, and they walked on past my bed.
This conversation made a profound impression on me; yet I fell into a deep quandary over whether to reveal my true identity or depart unrecognized. Finally I made my decision. Requesting pencil and paper, I jotted down the following words: ‘Your old friend is indeed doing better than before, and if his life now be taken up with works of atonement, it is the atonement of a man reconciled with life.’
Hereupon, having regained my strength and feeling much better, I asked to be allowed to get dressed. They fetched the key to the little cabinet beside my bed. In it I found a
ll my possessions. I put on my clothes, and over my old black kurtka I slung the botanical pouch (in which, to my great jubilation, I found again all the flora I had gathered in the Northern Hemisphere), slipped into my boots, laid the note I’d written on my bed and, as soon as the door was open, was already well on my way to Thebes.
Once I set foot again on the coast of Syria and returned along the same path that had last led me from home, I spotted my poor Figaro come bounding at me. That formidable dog appears to have attempted to follow the trail of his master, who left him languishing at home for such a long while. I stood still and called to him. He leapt upon me, barking with a thousand stirring exclamations of his innocent, unfettered joy. I took him in my arms, for the poor beast was naturally unable to keep up with my boots, and brought him back home with me.
There I found everything as I had left it, and little by little, as my strength returned, I went back to my former pursuits and resumed my old life; except that for an entire year I avoided exposing myself to the bitter effects of the polar chill.
And this, my dear Chamisso, is how I still live today. My boots do not wear thin at the soles, as that very learned work by the famous Tieckius, De rebus gestis Pollicilli, once gave me to fear they would. The durability of my fine footwear remains unimpeded; only my own strength is fading; and yet I may console myself with the fact that I have not used them idly but have employed them consistently for the pursuit of knowledge and progress. I have, in so far as my boots permitted, gained a deeper knowledge and learnt more than any man before me of the earth, its formation, its precipices, its atmospheres in their constant flux, the manifestations of its magnetic force and its life forms, particularly the flora. I have recorded the conditions I observed as accurately as I could in as clear a fashion as possible in many works, and noted down my conclusions and views in a few cursory papers.
I charted the geography of the interior of Africa and that of the frozen polar ice caps, mapped out Asia from its centre to its eastern coastline. My Historia stirpium plantarum utriusque orbis is a major, albeit fragmentary, contribution to the Flora universalis terrae and an important link in my Systema naturae. In my painstaking work, I believe that I have not only increased by a third the number of known species, but have added my share to our knowledge of the natural order and the geography of plants. I am working studiously on my fauna. I will take pains to see that before my death my manuscripts are deposited in the library of the University of Berlin. And you, my dear Chamisso, I have chosen as the executor of my wondrous story, so that once I no longer walk the earth my story may yet serve as a moral lesson to some of its citizens. But to you, my dear friend, I say that if you wish to live among your fellow man, learn to value your shadow more than gold. If, on the other hand, you choose to live only for the sake of your own better self, then you need no advice from me.
EXPLICIT
The Marble Statue
1819
Josef von Eichendorff
It was on a lovely summer evening that Florio, a young nobleman, slowly approached the gates of Lucca, delighting in the pleasant breeze that swept over the splendid landscape and the towers and rooftops of the city, and rustled the gay garments of the elegant ladies and gentlemen strolling along, engaged in cheerful chatter beneath the tall chestnut alleys on both sides of the street.
Then another brightly attired rider on a gallant mount, heading in the same direction, with a golden chain around his neck and a velvet feathered bonnet gracing his dark brown locks, came riding up beside him with a friendly greeting. Trotting along, side by side, in the darkening eventide, the two soon struck up a conversation, and Florio was so taken by the stranger’s slender figure, his bold and cheerful manner and the sound of his merry voice, that he could not look away.
‘What business brings you to Lucca?’ the stranger finally asked.
‘No business at all,’ Florio replied, a bit timidly.
‘No business? Then you must surely be a poet!’ the latter replied with a hearty laugh.
‘Most definitely not!’ Florio responded, turning red in the face. ‘I did indeed try my hand at the merry minstrel’s art, but when I turned back to the grand old masters, and saw how all that I could only dream of and suggest was there in body and soul, then my own voice sounded like the feeble little chirp of a lark wafted by the wind in the measureless expanse of heaven’s dome.’
‘Everyone sings God’s praises in his own way,’ the stranger said, ‘and the mingling of all voices makes the spring.’ As he spoke, the stranger’s big soulful eyes fell with evident fondness on the comely young man who took in the world at twilight with such an innocent mien.
‘All I want right now is to travel,’ the latter continued in a bolder, more confident tone of voice, ‘and I feel as though released from a prison, free to indulge all my old wishes and whims. Having grown up in the silence of the country, for years I gazed with longing at those distant blue mountains when spring came sweeping through our garden like an enchanted minstrel, inveigling me with hymns of the lovely distance and hinting at the great untold pleasures that await me.’
These last words set the stranger thinking: ‘Have you then never,’ he asked in an amused, albeit serious, tone of voice, ‘heard of the magical flutist who lures the youth into an enchanted mountain from which none return? Better be careful, my boy!’
Florio did not know what to make of the stranger’s words, nor did he get the chance to ask him to explain; since, instead of riding up to the gate, unwittingly following the strolling crowd, they found themselves in a wide green place planted with colourful tents, where a merry company of musicians mingled with people on horseback and on foot in the last glimmering light of evening.
‘Here’s a good place to turn in for the night,’ the stranger said merrily, swinging out of his saddle; ‘see you again soon, I hope!’ whereupon he promptly disappeared in the crowd.
Florio gazed a while in quiet ecstasy at the unexpected sight. Then he followed the example of his erstwhile companion, passed the reins of his horse to his servant and mingled with the merry throng.
Hidden choirs burst into song all around him from behind blossoming bushes, beneath the tall trees stately ladies strolled up and down and let their lovely downcast eyes survey the glittering lawn, laughing and chattering, nodding with brightly coloured feathers in the evening glimmer like a bed of flowers wafting in the wind. On a green field not far away a group of girls amused themselves playing badminton. The brightly feathered shuttlecocks fluttered like butterflies, tracing arches back and forth in the blue air, while the girls scampering up and down the green expanse never lost their sweet expressions. One girl, in particular, attracted Florio’s attention with her comely, still almost childlike, figure and the grace of all her movements. She wore a full and brilliant wreath of flowers in her hair and looked like the picture of spring itself, now flying with a burst of energy across the field, now bending, now leaping again with her lovely limbs. A blunder by her opponents made her shuttlecock take a wrong turn and land at Florio’s feet. He picked it up and handed it to the wreathed maiden, who came running after it. She froze, as though struck dumb, and gazed at him in silence with her big, beautiful eyes. Then, blushing, she bowed and bounded back to her playmates.
The ever-swelling stream of glittering carriages and riders slowly and splendidly wending their way along the main alley, meanwhile, drew Florio’s attention away from this charming game, and he rambled alone for a good hour amongst the ever-changing spectacle.
All of a sudden he heard a number of women and the gentlemen beside them cry out: ‘It’s the singer Fortunato!’ He spun around to look in the direction in which they pointed and, to his great amazement, spotted the handsome stranger who had accompanied him to this place earlier on. Off to the side in a meadow, the stranger stood leaning against a tree in the midst of an elegant circle of ladies and gentlemen, all listening to his singing, to which several voices from the crowd sometimes sang back sweetly. Among
them Florio once again spotted the beautiful badminton player who, quietly contented, seemed to soak up every note with her wide-open eyes.
Struck dumb, Florio bethought how before he had been engaged in such friendly chatter with the famous singer, whom he had so long admired by reputation, and now stood timidly at a considerable distance, taking in the sweet strains of the song contest. Heartened by the notes that wafted his way, he would have gladly stood there listening all night long, and was downright angry when Fortunato soon stopped singing and the flock of listeners rose from the lawn.
Then the singer spotted the young man in the distance and promptly walked up to him. Warmly he clasped him by both hands and, ignoring all protests, pulled the young fool along, like a friendly prisoner, to the nearby open tent where the group now gathered for a merry dinner party. Everyone greeted him like an old acquaintance, many a lovely eye rested with well-disposed wonder on the pink-cheeked young stripling.
