The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel
I walked around the building. No, it had no second exit. Nowhere. I looked once more at the flat, red bricks of the entrance, hollowed out by feet, over which Sennon had stepped for the last time. In the afternoon I took an interpreter with me, a young and clever Spaniard, and went to see the Sheikh of the Halveti, Achmed. I was immediately admitted and had a drink of coffee with him and a young serious-looking dervish, on a colorful tray in a bright room. The Spaniard told the Sheikh what I said to him. No, the Sotnie (Herr) had come for nothing. It was well known that a soldier of Austria entered the Tekkeh and never came out again. However, this must be a mistake, because the Tekkeh has only one door. Yes, fine. But how to explain the thing? Who was the dervish in the brown robe, with the turban of the Halveti and the amber necklace? Oh, if only I had known the life of Melchior Dronte! If I had known about Isa Bektschi! But at that time the sheets with Vorauf’s transcription were lying in my house thousands and thousands of miles away from Schipnie, on the country road with the poplar trees, sealed and wrapped, not even visible to the moon when it looked through the window of my room at night. Yes, the dervish? It had been none of them. Moreover, the door of the Tekkeh was always locked- with three old locks, each of which weighed close to two pounds; very old locks from the days of the Sultans. But some explanation – must there be some explanation? How did Vorauf and the monk get through the locked door? The sheikh with the white beard and the young dervish looked at each other, glanced at me and the interpreter with a look of polite disdain; yes – I was used to such looks, since I had gotten to know Mohammedans, and then they spoke quickly and quietly with each other. I understood only the words “syrr” and “Dejishtirme!” The old man bowed to me. He was very sorry that he was not able to help me. Unfortunately nothing more was known. No, unfortunately, nothing is known, agreed the dervish. The interpreter translated. We were looked at amiably and inquiringly. The eyes said, “May we now ask to be alone again, my curious Herrn?” I stood up. There was nothing more to be learned. I could see that. The dervishes were very polite. The sheikh touched the carpet with his hand before he brought it to his forehead and mouth. “What were they talking about?” I asked the Spaniard as we stood in the blinding sunlight under the cypress trees and listened to the laughter and gurgling of the wild pigeons above us. The interpreter shrugged sheepishly. “They not talk like Shiptar, Albanian, Sotnie,” he said. “They speak very softly. I did not understand. It was Osmanli, turc, mon capitaine, you understand – -.” “What do the words ‘syrr’ and ‘Dejischtirme,’ mean?” I asked. I had remembered them well from memory. The interpreter shook his head, then he said: ” ‘Syrr!’ It is secret, yes, and ‘Dejischtirme’, says in German: an exchange.” “Yes, and what does it mean?” “Le mystere – the secret of the transformation–a transformation in a living body -. vous comprenez?” “Fairy tale! Fairy tale!” Yes, here time had stopped. In the coffeehouses, and when it got dark, the Turks only went out in twos and threes, so afraid were they of the jinns, the Afrits and the Gulen. But I, Doctor Kaspar Hedrich – — Transformation. So the good Sennon Vorauf. What had he said? What did it say in Riemei’s letter? “I am called!” Then, in my distress, I went once again to the Headquarters. “Cheeky swindle!” shouted Herr Lt. Switschko. “The fellow deserted. The Turks were in on it with him. I have seen it myself, how they bowed down to the ground before him, and the women came to him with sick children. I should not have tolerated the story from the beginning. Would you like to come with me to the Menashe, Herr Regimental Surgeon?” No, I did not go. I also didn’t want to see Riemeis and Corporal Maierl. I was very sad. Oh, these precious leaves in front of me! Why did these leaves have to fall into my hand so late? But he had wanted it that way, Sennon, the – yes, the Ewli. I am sitting here all alone, and it is midnight. All that is long gone, life is short, and what I have missed will not return. What wanderings are in store for me, what paths? “Syrr,” sighs the wind in the poplars. “Syrr!”
The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel
The way was not too long. I looked once more with the old eyes that had seen so much during my existence, and enjoyed the colorful multiplicity of the images that showed themselves to me. I saw the butcher with a steaming, scalded pig in a wooden trough, and the brass basins of a barber, which rattled in the wind and rain and hung full of little drops. I took the pitying look of two dark, beautiful girl’s eyes under a blue and white bonnet, noticed a black dog that reminded me of poor Diana, and smelled the strong, sour-tart smell of fresh tan, coming from a tanner’s workshop. A steel blue fly with little glass wings sat down on my knees and thus traveled quite a distance without effort of its own. A bunch of funny screaming spiders, uninvolved in humanity threw themselves like a brown cloud over the smoking mountain of horse manure, which came from one of the front wagons, and an ancient sycamore tree, all hung with water beads, morosely and indifferently let us pass by. And then, with a jerk, all the wagons stopped. We had arrived at the ugly square, where not long ago I had spoken with the young officer about the French nation, and my gaze fell on the gaunt reddish-brown scaffold that towered high above our heads, with ghastly simplicity. At that moment the wall of fog broke, and a pale ray of sunlight fell with dull glint on the slanting knife high up under the crossbeam. “How soon all this will be over!” I thought, and remembered so many moments of impatience and not being able to wait, which lay far behind me in the old days. We had to descend, and we were helped to do so. The people did not shout. There was only that quiet murmur of a thousand voices that betrayed the excitement of a great crowd. No one shouted swear words at us, and many eyes looked sympathetically. I had the feeling that with such a general mood, the great killings would soon subside and finally stop altogether. My knees were stiff from sitting and from the morning chill. The distress of the body cramps set in once again, and the right hip was very painful when walking. I saw people appear on the platform, appearing to move. The knife fell with a dull clang and was raised again. It was red. Something struck the boards of the bloody scaffold. The fear of the body almost gained the upper hand. A thought pushed forward, gained space: To do something to save myself, to scream, to beg, to break through the crowd, to break the cords… That’s when I saw him… Huddled like a bat. Fangerle. He was sitting on a lantern of the gallows, grimly distorting his wide mouth, the evil yellow eyes directed at me, a red, Phrygian cap on his skull instead of a big hat. His eyes were like two wasps that lived and crawled around in the cavities of his head. I closed my eyes. My will kept the upper hand. “Return to the depths!” I said to myself. When I looked again with all my strength, the apparition had disappeared, the pole was empty. A soldier grasped me almost timidly by the arm and pushed me forward with gentle force. I saw how clotted, thick blood flowed sluggishly down the boards of the scaffolding. Before me the Marquis de Carmignac climbed the slippery little stairs. Two men with naked arms grabbed him, strapped him to the board, and tipped it over. The upper part of the wood, which enclosed the neck, lowered. Whoosh… A whistling sound came from his headless neck. The feet with the buckled shoes, manly still in death, softly tapped the ground, his body moved in the straps, as if he wanted to make himself more comfortable. They loosened the damp leather, rolled him aside; the golden pear rolled over the boards, a little lid opened, brown snuff dusted out. Quickly a hand reached for the shiny thing. I was next, climbing the stairs. A hand supported me kindly, saved me from a fall in a moment of slipping. I looked into a serious, well-cut face. It was Samson. He made a polite inviting hand gesture. Behind him stood the red-bristled monster. Images circled in my brain in a flash. The arm with the executioner’s sword in the witch’s room of Krottenriede, the box with the singing little bird, burning candles in a black room, the glitter of Aglaja’s crown of death, the little dead man with the hourglass and the scythe, as it tilted out of the old clock, the Bavarian Haymon as an Amicist —Firm hands grabbed me by the arm. Faces slid past me. I stood at the board. The warm smell of blood rose to my nostrils, tickling and irritating in the nose. Thin straps snaked around my upper body, my legs. I fell forward — it creaked softly around me, – pain- my larynx hit a semicircle. I thought: Now the knife will cut through my throat, sawdust will fill my eyes, my mouth —. Wet wood descended on the back of my neck. Isa Bektschi! Isa Bektschi! With all my might I thought of the Ewli. I forced him to me. Close to mine I saw his face – his mouth, as if he wanted to kiss me – kind, dark eyes, like two black suns. His gaze enclosed me with infinite love and promise. I thought nothing more. I saw only him – drank his looks, absorbed his essence into me. Then dazzling, golden rays shot out from his eyes, piercing me, consuming me in fiery embers – in golden fire. But still I saw that face, clearly, sharply, saw it growing smaller and smaller – small as a dot and yet recognizable -. I opened my mouth, felt woody, dry splinters, moist chunks—. Then night — hissing — sound — a painful tearing – a thread cut in two — I found myself outside my body. My body lay in its brown, rumpled suit, without coat, with blood-soaked shirt edge on the board of the guillotine. Despite the tight straps, my upper body reared up a few times violently. Fountains of blood rushed out of the two large neck veins. The head lay pale, with wide-open eyes in the basket. Its face smiled. All the people who were standing around the scaffold looked on in silence. The board became empty. The man who had called Astaroth and the fiery dragons was dragged up the steps. He struggled with all his might, kicking with his feet, snapping his teeth. He did not want to – – All this was so indifferent for me. I rose and floated away over the many heads, glided effortlessly, and without finding any resistance, through the house walls and window panes, driven by a force. I had no eyes and saw everything. I heard. But I felt nothing. I thought nothing either. I was consciousness itself. Everything came to me, was immediately recognized. Vibrations of many kinds trembled through me, without me feeling pleasure or suffering. It was coldness, warmth, a sound, light, phenomena for which there are no words in human language, sensations when encountering beings, that remain invisible and unknown to people. I was of a shape, if this is possible to say, like those glassy-transparent bodies that glide past human eyes when they look for a long time into the distant pure blue heavens. Nevertheless I was not a body. I was also not nothing. I was a soul, like many of those who floated in the world space. But I had consciousness, I was mindful of my ego and I had a goal. I was looking for a new house with those instruments of the senses, which received from outside and could reflect from the inner back to the outer: Could express thoughts as words. I was looking for a human body. Inside me I carried the tiny image of a noble, godlike face, the reflection of which I had taken with me into infinity when I left the destroyed body. From this image my consciousness extended along with the ability to remember. The will for re-embodiment was the only drive that dominated me. According to inscrutable laws born of the eternity of becoming and passing, I strove towards my goal, devoid of all those feelings that can be called impatience, expectation or hope. There was no time; there was no distance and no obstacles. Forces to which I surrendered of my own accord willingly lifted me up, made me sink down, and made me to fade away, to wander and to rest. I was unmoved in my consciousness. Everything was offered to me, nothing was hidden from me, and nothing was veiled, neither in depths nor in heights. The wind blew through me, the rain fell through me. I had nothing of the properties that things in space possess. I was big and small, inside and outside, far and near. I saw sunsets in ocean wastelands, mountain hikers crashed in crevasses of ice, blue flowers that slowly withered, ghosts in waterfalls, beings that lived in crystals, red and yellow sandstorms, and fermenting garbage, out of which new creatures of the strangest kind sprang, dwarfs, who would have appeared as stones to human eyes, winged creatures that rode and roared, sleeping in beds, seeded with tiny goblins as with vermin, people, from whom evil flowed like a poisonous breath. I passed by all this. There were animals in herds on vast steppes, animals in the air, in holes in the ground, in the water. Small, crawling, flying, running animals, animals of all kinds, covered with hair, feathers, scales, bristles and plates, living animals. They attracted me because they were alive. They begat young, hatched them, reproduced thousands of times. They attracted me strongly, because they had living bodies, warm bodies. But I carried in me a human face and did not follow those souls, that lurked waiting to enter into the egg cell at the moment of conception. I was only attracted to people. I was attracted to them by a tremendous force. It was good to be with people. I attached myself to them, was with them, in them, slid through them and was a guest with others. I lived with them. I saw them as one sees a region that resembles the abandoned homeland. I have to use such comparisons, although the truth is quite different.
The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel
“I wanted to protect the defenseless woman,” I said, looking him in the eye. He shook his head reluctantly. There was a murmur. “Are you a friend of freedom?” I thought for a moment and then answered the question with a “yes.” “Was it known to you that citizen Lamballe had fled to England and returned from there to Paris?” “Yes.” “In that case, it was reasonable to assume that there was valuable information about her co-conspirators located here that could be obtained. Not so?” I was silent. He looked at me again with a quiet, disapproving head movement and with a tongue-lashing spoke slowly and clearly, emphasizing each word: “I know what you are trying to say, Citizen Dronte. In your zeal to serve the republic and prevent a premature and early end of the traitor, you have sought to use violence to prevent the execution of the sentence. However, you fared badly enough. Is that so? Give me answer!” He nodded an almost imperceptible “yes” and waited. I felt briefly and strongly the lure to return to freedom from the horror of this justice. But a powerful, insurmountable feeling inside me made the friendly images of imminent freedom quickly fade away. I realized, like a holy necessity, that I had to be hard and merciless against myself, otherwise I should be thrown back into levels from which I had ascended and not allowed to higher ones whose aura I had attained. “I have tried to save the princess on the basis of feelings of a personal nature!” The chairman heaved a sigh of annoyance, swayed his head, drummed on the table and raised his eyes to the ceiling. The committee members looked at me bored, and in the auditorium a yawning voice said: “These are quibbles, Jeannot – Do you understand any of it?” “In a nutshell: you had no intention of protecting the woman as such, but rather to render a service to the Republic. We have no time, Citizen Dronte, and I hope that your sincere admission of this fact will settle the case!” A cold breath passed over my face. The scales stood: a lie had to sink the bowl — “I did not think of the Republic in my deed!” Now it was spoken. Great unrest arose. Even the drowsiest among the listeners understood, awakened to irritated attention. The face of the chairman turned red with anger. He threw his head back so that his hair flew and hissed at me: “You dare tell me that?” “It is the truth,” I replied. It was clear to me that the grateful magister must have had his hand in this, and it saddened me that his not without danger effort had now been in vain. But I had to follow the path that my innermost feeling was the right one, to go to the end, regardless of the feelings that arise from the body’s instinct for self-preservation. The behavior of the chairman changed immediately. A deep vertical wrinkle appeared between his eyebrows, and he bit his lips angrily before continuing the interrogation. “You are a stranger. For what purpose did you come to Paris?” “To become acquainted with the Revolution and its aims- .” “With friendly or hostile intent?” “I did not come with hostile intentions.” “You are a baron. – How can an aristocrat’s opinion of the Revolution be otherwise than hostile?” suddenly the bilious committee member intervened. “Does such a person love the poor people -?” growled the one with the stained red cap. “How?” he turned to me. “I love all the people.” “These are sayings such as every priest has in his pocket who stands before the tribunal,” the judge snapped at me and assumed a frowning pose with a lurking look at me. “You have thus joined the brave ones who have gone the Lamballe way, not in the interest of the state, but in order to protect the queen’s intimate for some other dark motive.” “Don’t make such long stories!” grumbled someone behind me. “He’s one of the whore’s lovers, nothing else!” Shrill whistles sounded. Wild stomping of feet revealed that the people wanted an end. The skinny man talked to the chairman. The latter shrugged and turned to the other committee member, who nodded his head vigorously, raised his right hand and dropped it with the edge on the table. It was clearly understandable what he meant by this. The chairman stood up, stretched out his right hand toward me like a king of the theater, while the left hand rested on his heart, and spoke with his voice low and rolling the R’s: “Citizen Dronte is guilty of treason against the Republic!” Thunderous clapping of hands resounded. I sat down, completely calm and certain of the end. Then the man in the dark blue, gold-embroidered jacket slowly turned his stern and stony face toward me, smiled and said very loudly and audibly: “Allow me, Baron, to express to you my sincere esteem!” Laughter and jeering followed his words. An apple case flew past my head and remained in front of the judge’s table. The theatrical chairman slammed his fist on the table and shouted, “Quiet!” Gradually, the scolding, laughing and whistling ceased. “Citizen Carmignac!” rang out the complacent voice. The man in the blue jacket stood up. “I am Philipp Anton Maria Marquis of Carmignac, Pair of France, Privy Councillor of His Majesty the King, Chairman of the Breton Chamber of Nobility, Commander of the Order of Louis —“ The hall cheered. This tall man and his proud manner promised a spectacle. The emphasis on his rank even evoked a certain respect. “He looks well, the marquis,” someone said. “But his neck is as thin as that of Lamballe’s lover,” laughed in response. “Curses! And the thing is settled.” The marquis took a pinch from his little gold pear and carefully patted his brocade vest with a small lace cloth to clean off the tobacco dust. “You are accused of -,” began the presiding chairman. “Above all,” said the nobleman with inimitable haughtiness, “I wish to make the declaration that the privileges to which I am entitled have been violated with unlawful violence and I was brought here by unlawfully armed persons. Now, as to this court I note that it is not made up of royal courtiers, but of a bad actor, a master carpenter and a runaway servant of the church, “and therefore offers no cause for further consideration.” After these words the marquis sat down, contemptuously staring into the air. For a few seconds there remained silence. The stupefaction was general. But then arose such a thunderous noise, such a roar of anger that the soldiers present were hardly able to hold back the frenzied crowd. Meanwhile, the presiding judge stood up. One saw him waving his hands urgently to call for silence. It took long enough for him to make himself understood. He directed an angry, scornful look at the count, who looked past him equanimously. “Citizen Carmignac, I demand that you stand up before I have to use violence and give the tribunal of the people the homage it deserves.” The marquis shrugged his shoulders and nonchalantly stood up on his feet. “I do not wish to get dirt stains on my jacket,” he said. “For this I rise.” The actor sat down and pushed his chin forward. “If I understand you correctly, Citizen Carmignac, you fell asleep before the revolution and still haven’t awakened, eh?” The mocked man made no reply. Some people in the hall laughed. “You have made an attempt to bribe the turnkey of the Temple to give Citizen Capet, who is kept there, information on the successes of the emigrants at the Austrian and the Prussian court, by means of a small piece of paper concealed in a gold case, which was hidden in one of six lemons. Is it this case?” The hand of the judge was holding a tiny gold case of elongated shape. The marquis measured it under half-closed lids. “Since you are playing court here, you will have to go to the trouble of proving your accusations.” The displeasure in the room grew noticeably. “He shall be embraced by Samson’s coquette!” roared the voice of one of the angriest screamers. The courtiers bowed their heads to each other, whispered, nodded, the chairman stood up and without any movement pronounced his “guilty”. The court rose. Four soldiers stepped in to us and told us to stand up. It was fairly quiet as we were led out of the hall. The people were satisfied. When we stepped out of the door, where a new troop of anxious, well-guarded people of both sexes were waiting to be interrogated, I felt something angular in my right palm, like a piece of folded paper, and closed my fingers tightly around it. We were going a different way than the one that had brought us here from the prison, under an open portcullis, and finally found ourselves in a spacious, dry and bright cellar. It was full of people.
The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel
Only when complete silence had fallen in the background he leaned back in his armchair, so that the blue-white-red sash wrapped around his body tightened, took a sheet of paper from the table, as if playing, and said with a singing and theatrical voice: “Citizen Anastasia Beaujonin!” Loud murmuring, throat clearing and spitting out behind us betrayed the now beginning tension of the audience. The young woman next to me had let out a small scream at the mention of her name. She stood up, burst into a new torrent of tears and pressed a tiny handkerchief to her eyes. I looked at her pityingly. Her pretty dress, pink and blue flowered, was badly wrinkled and disfigured. Several times she ran with her hand, smoothing out the wrinkles. Surely the appearance of her person preoccupied her just as much as the concern about the outcome of a trial that knew neither witnesses nor in its deliberate brevity offered little hope. The chairman assumed a significant posture, made a beautiful gesture with his right hand, and spoke with an emphasis as if he wanted to declaim: “Pay attention to what I say, Citizen Beaujonin! Think about your answers, because our time is short. It does not belong to us, but to the nation. You are accused of keeping Baron Hautecorne hidden in the attic of your house for three days although you must have known that he belonged among the proscribed. What do you have to reply?” “Oh, my God,” the woman stammered. “I loved him so much — -“ The judge smiled. From behind one heard a coarse woman’s voice: “She is brave, the little one, and speaks as a woman should speak.” “Silence, Mother Flanche!” shouted the judge. “You must not make any remarks here!” “Don’t break anything, my sweet boy!” it came back. “I have known you since you were a Temple singer.” The chairman was about to start up, but then only made a dismissive gesture with his hand and said, turning to the young woman, “So?” She swallowed a few times and directed her shy, fearful gaze on me for a moment, as if she were trying to get courage from me. This seemed to annoy the judge, because he took a petition and knocked violently on the table with it. “And why did you love citizen Hautecorne so much?” he asked mockingly, showing his white teeth. “Because he was so beautiful-almost as beautiful as you!” She said softly, looking at him with a full gaze. A storm of applause, mixed with shouts, laughter and the trampling of feet roared through the hall. Even the committee members smiled sourly, and the chairman stroked back a curl of hair that had fallen across his forehead with a smug movement. “Let the little girl go – -,” cried one. “She needs her head to give it to you-,” they laughed. “Well said, Rodolphe.” “She knows how you men must be treated.” When silence had returned, the Judge said in a gentle voice: “Madame, I have reason to believe that you were unaware of the danger of this enemy of the Republic when your assistance was rendered?” “Oh – no,” sobbed the accused, quickly grasping her advantage. “I love the Republic -. I would have never –“ “Did he at least do his thing well, your baron?” roared one of the audience. The judge struck the butt of the file angrily. “Hey, now, Perrin, Verrou, and Mastiche, see who’s trying to make my acquaintance back there!” he shouted, and at once three soldiers stumbled into the background, their heavy rifles in their arms. Immediately there was silence. The judge leaned toward the committee members. They whispered and nodded to him. “Madame,” then said the presiding judge, “I will dare to set you at liberty for the time being. But take care!” “Oh -” the woman cried out and laughed all over her face. “Wait Madame. I want to take it upon myself. I have a responsibility to answer to the nation. You see, the people are mild and chivalrous to women, if that is possible. Before you leave you will have the goodness to write your future address on a piece of paper and hand it to me!” “Oh, you damned truffle pig,” laughed one of them. The soldiers spoke fiercely at him. “I’ll say no more,” he assured them. “Let go of my paws!” Silence fell again. The little girl smiled gracefully, pattered on her high heels to the tribune table and scribbled a few words on a piece of paper, which the judge held out to her, read and pocketed. Suppressed laughter in the auditorium accompanied this action. “You may go, Madame, but you will remain at the Tribunal’s disposal!” The woman stopped, looked sheepishly and uncertainly at the judges and then at the laughing spectators, turned suddenly and ran quickly, looking neither to the right nor to the left, right through the middle of the dumbfounded looking soldiers and out of the room. Immediately, the chairman assumed a dreadful official face, rustled with paper and then said briefly and sharply: “Citizen Melchior Dronte!” I stood up. Everything in me was calm, all fear disappeared. Again, I felt as if I were now contemplating a fate, whose further development was completely clear to me. Without any hostility I looked at the vain man who had set himself as a judge over me. His gaze immediately met mine and passed me by. In order to hide this weakness, he took his eyes off me and taking some sheets from the table acted as if he needed a constant insight into the act, which would explain the circumstances of my capture and the charges against me. At last he raised his head and said: “In the case of an expression of the will of the people, which was directed against the rightfully detested citizen Lamballe —“ A many-voiced outburst of rage arose. “Death to the aristocrat! Down with her!” “Shut your mouths!” “She’s already perished!” “Death to Lamballe!” The judge waited patiently for the noise to subside, and then continued: “- The detested citizen Lamballe, from whom important information about a conspiracy in England against the republic were to be hoped for, has been crushed by the holy wrath of the citizens. You, citizen Dronte, have made the attempt to obstruct the people, who were passing and carrying out its judgment. What were your intentions with the way you handled this?”
The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel
In the prison they must have long since heard the howls of the insane crowd, because several times, inquiring and peering faces appeared at the windows of the first floor. But soon the obstinate shouting of the crowd was followed by action; axe blows thundered against the small, heavy door, a dusty pane of glass shattered under the thrown stones. Then a window opened upstairs, a sleepy face with half-closed eyes and sagging cheeks appeared, smiled and nodded to the people, whereupon the shouting intensified to the point of madness. Only for a moment my eyes were on a gray relief on the wall, when a hurricane-like howling of many thousand voices passed over men, the windows of La Force were shaking. The small door opened- In the stone frame stood pale as a corpse, a distorted smile of fear in the beautiful face, her small hands raised as if pleading, a young woman – “Aglaja!” I cried out. It was her. Aglaja. My beloved, slipped into the realm of shadows,
awakened from a deep sleep by the roaring of irritated animals.
There she stood, threatened by madmen, murderers, by rusty weapons, stones, shaking -. I screamed, screamed -. Her blinding forehead opened in a red, gaping crack, her eyes opened wide – from the light brocade of the bodice suddenly rose a greasy, wooden lance shaft – Silk tore with a high-pitched hiss — a small, plaintive cry – – like a bird call. Flames fell from the sky, flared up from the earth, and enveloped me. I pushed and hurled people at people, smashed my cane into a face, slammed my fist into a screaming mouth, sobbed, screamed, kicked, grabbed the handle of a saber, struck so that it sprayed, spitting and roaring louder than the thousands – – My gaze was drawn tightly to a twitching, white body adorned with blood roses, rough red laughter – I saw a dark hand tugging at something long and pale pink, a naked black foot kicked at a trembling woman’s breast — A booming blow struck my head. I fell. I tried to get up on my knees. Devilish faces neighed all around me; in a wide mouth were greenish stumps. In the hollow of two large hands, close to my face, moved twitching a bloody piece of meat, shining red, terrible to look at – a throbbing heart – I fell down on my face. In an unearthly roar the world passed away. The prison in which I found myself was an old coal cellar and received only a faint light through the small windows, which had never been cleaned. The bars in front of the windows were thickly covered with street excrement, and the yellowish glow left the background in complete dimness. It took quite some time before the dull pain in my head subsided to such an extent that I could look around in this subterranean room. Again and again I felt the painful lump on the back of my head, which a terrible blow had left behind, and repeatedly I tried to remove my torn, bloody and covered with street excrement suit in order to clean it. I was not indifferent to my appearance because several ladies were present. They had been given the largest part of the dirty wooden enclosure, and some of the gentlemen who were also in the prison, who, at the moment of their arrest, had an overcoat at the time of their arrest, had disposed of this garment in order to be used as blankets and bedding. “May I ask your name, Herr?” a tall, impeccably dressed gentleman in a poppy red jacket addressed me. “So that I can introduce you to the others if that is alright with you.” I named myself and was thereupon formally introduced by the Vicomte de la Tour d’Aury to the other prisoners. I was spoken to in an amiable manner with regrets that my so desirable acquaintance had to be made on such a sad occasion. I had unfortunately arrived in Paris several years too late, said a very pretty lady with a little beauty spot on her white and rosy face, and it was more than deplorable that under the present circumstances, one must get a completely wrong impression of the French way of life. With a bow, I replied that the setting in which people are found is not as important as the fact that people find each other, and that I had already experienced in just a few moments so many pleasant acquaintances, I had been abundantly showered with chivalrous attentions on the part of my accidental comrades in destiny. Asked about the cause of my arrest, I could not avoid mentioning the murder of the poor Princess Lamballe in the gentlest form. The ladies immediately burst into tears, and several gentlemen, with clenched fists, expressed the ardent desire for unprecedented revenge. To all, however, the sudden death of the beautiful woman on whose energy they had placed great hopes was a heavy blow, which destroyed a large part of their secretly cherished expectations. Now all their wishes were directed to a terrible and bloody retribution, while two floors above, it was surely decided to send the heads in which such plans flourished, into Samson’s wicker basket. The tremendous mental shock into which the resemblance between the slain princess and my beloved one, who was always fleeing into the shadows of eternity, had given way in this prison to a feeling of desolate emptiness. And secretly blossomed in me, like a pale Asphodelos, the longing for the beloved image, which approached me in all kinds of forms, leaving me to follow into the unexplored realm, where her eternal home was. Without any excitement I thought of the probability of my end. The hand on my pocket watch, which I found in my vest with the glass broken, measured the last hours of my life in the circle of numbers. For a long time I watched the Arabic numerals on the white disc, adorned with a wreath of cheerful roses, and thought that by one of the sixty strokes, or between two of them, a sharp, short pain would fly through my throat and extinguish my thoughts. With unheard-of clarity I saw my headless torso in this badly battered brown suit lying and twitching on the board, with two intermittently leaping fountains of blood in place of the head, and this roll into the basket of the Executioner. I looked at this shuddering self- image so calmly, as if the thing didn’t concern me at all. The addiction of the ladies for entertainment also in the present place of stay soon snatched me from this sinking, and I was compelled to answer all sorts of questions about my early life, my adult life, my family and any adventures I might have had in Paris. With graceful ease things were touched upon of which I had not been accustomed to speak of for a long time and whose description was embarrassing to me. But I soon saw that the interest of the women was not as insistent as one would have expected from the graceful eagerness of the questioning. Everything that was done and talked about here had only one purpose, to fill the gloomy and hopeless days that lay before the sad end in the most distracting and entertaining way possible. Some gentlemen dressed in the office of the maitre de plaisir immediately offered, if someone covered himself in a thoughtful silence, everything they had to dispel the contagious gloom. They danced minuets and gavotte, practiced the almost lost pavane, sang, arranged games of forfeits and blind man’s bluff, played a little music and excelled in piquant anecdotes and joking questions. This way of getting through the slowly creeping time, I did not like much in my serious mood, but I also accepted it. Even more unpleasant were the pleasures of longing of a young count, who, with many sighs of regret for the time when one of his distinguished relatives in Normandy to pass the time had shot a rooftop worker from the castle tower. Another gentleman who seemed to be of the same mind as him praised the glory of the days when a member of his family had been invited by Louis the thirteenth to a feast, and when, after the hunt, his feet were frozen the bodies of two peasants were cut open on the spot so that he could warm his cold feet in them. With such speeches, I did not know what I should marvel at more: the blindness of people who even thought of such conditions of existence, or the unspeakable patience of the people, who had remained subject to such extremes, the taking away of the last piece of bread. Despite my disgust against the beasts of the street it became obvious to me once again that in this country under horrible convulsions and according to laws, which only God knew, a necessity was taking place, which was nothing other than the consequences of the causes for which these two thoughtless ones still mourned. The tender women in this dungeon, the old men, among whom was the Count Merigno, who was known for his charity, I felt sorry for most of them with all my heart. But among them were also those people who had nothing but a conceited disdain and insolent contempt for those who were not noble born, who had no knowledge of neither the sciences nor the arts and didn’t think of anything at all, unless in the service of their indulgent and gallant needs; their fate could not be called unjust. And I felt strangely solemn and peculiar, when I discovered on the wall, written in red chalk, the words: “Counted, weighed and found too light. In the late afternoon hours, when the room became more and more relaxed, the outlines of all things blurred and only a small candle stump burned in one corner, laughter and speech gradually lowered. Several who seemed to be familiar with each other, whispered all sorts of things that were not meant for the general public. The wretched food in the unclean bowls, which two turnkeys carried in on a board was, as far as it was noticed, quickly gulped down, and the empty vessels were taken away as they had come. After this many stretched out with sighs on the plank beds or on the brick floor to escape into the freedom of dreams and others, whispering prayers, moved their lips and let the beads of the rosaries they had brought with them slide through their fingers. I had sat down, tired and with my head still aching, and by stroking with my finger tips, tried to reduce the lump that had been left by the blow, the force of which had caused me to fall. Then, out of the groups, unrecognizable in the twilight, a man emerged, carrying a stool in his hand and sat down on it with me.
The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel
Despite the smallness of his body, there lay in his whole posture something respectful and compelling, which was difficult to escape from. Thus, his appearance captivated me in the highest degree. He wore a very simple uniform unknown to me, and had his arms crossed over his chest. “You’re a stranger?” he addressed me, smiling barely perceptibly. “I am a German,” I answered him. “Ah, a German!” He nodded his head. “A fine people, clever, warlike and obedient at the same time. Excellent soldiers. You witnessed these executions, mein Herr?” In spite of the danger that such frankness could bring me, I did not hide my disgust from him. “Yes, yes,” he smiled gloomily, “By the actions of these beasts you must have formed an excellent opinion of the French nation. But that doesn’t do anything. These people are good. Only they have a fever at this moment. They will cure it; let it bleed a little -“ I hesitated to answer him, even though there were no listeners nearby. For I was well aware of the fact that the so- called Well-being Committee maintained numerous agents, whose task it was to listen to the speeches of the people and to induce the discontented to make statements, the reproduction of which provided the means to render them harmless. But immediately afterwards I was ashamed of a suspicion over which this man was certainly above. As far as my knowledge of man, I read in this face ruthlessness, indomitable will, and the power to remove unpleasant obstacles by force. Perhaps the little man with the hard mouth was capable of a gigantic despicability when his certainly unusual plans required it, but hardly of a petty action against someone whose path did not cross his. All this I read in the dark abyss of his eyes, from which shone the spark of a genius. “I deplore it,” I said to him, “that bloodlust and vindictiveness sully the garb of the goddess of liberty, and that it is precisely the ugliest drives that are the shoots that appear most conspicuously in the disintegration of a fixed order. Thus it happens to me that what seems great and sublime to me from a distance, appears frightening and devoid of all greatness up close. The freedom of a people –“ “Oh, freedom!” he interrupted me. “Those are silly phrases. The people do not need Freedom, but the firm hand of a leader. Centuries will pass before the people will be ready for the ideals for which the unfounded enthusiasts believe the time has already come. It does not do much harm, however. The heads that are now falling are not worth much, except for a few whose loss is deplorable, and the riffraff are in their own way for the time being. Nevertheless, mein Herr German, I say to you that with this very valuable, fiery and easily treated material the world can be conquered, if it comes into the right hands. Out of these lousy, jeering, broken lads an army of heroes can be created like no other that has ever stomped the ground. The monstrous body, unconscious of its strength lacks only the head to make it insurmountable.” “Surely this head also sits on mortal shoulders,” I replied. “And it is, as you know, a bad time for heads.” Again the man’s lips twisted into an almost perceptible smile. “I have good reason to hope that the head I mean will not fall into Samson’s basket,” he said. Slowly we walked in the direction of a side alley. Wild, long-drawn out screaming and the wailing of a woman’s voice, coming from an old house, made me stop. As we came closer, we saw in the dark hallway a young woman in the labor of childbirth lying on the brick pavement. Under her pain, new life pressed towards the light. Neighboring women took care of the woman in labor, and an old woman told us to unwillingly go on. “Fat Margot is having another baby! Every year she gives birth to a piglet!” shouted an alley boy and danced on one foot, delighted to be present at this event. The officer grabbed the boy by the arm, turned him towards him, looked him in the face with a terrible look and said: “Why are you pleased, cretin? Is it because your replacement is born? He will take your place in the regiment when you are buried in the clay after the battle!” I saw the lad turn pale under the icy gaze of my companion, as if he had seen the Medusa’s head. Shrieking and flailing his arms, he ran down the alley. I watched him go. When I turned around, the officer had disappeared. After that day, I did not go out much on the street. Several times at night I heard the pounding of rifle butts at the front doors, the wild weeping of women and the horrified objections of those suddenly arrested who had been dragged out of their beds. My reclusive behavior noticeably increased the distrust of the house inhabitants. Nevertheless, it was the hardest thing for me to overcome, to enter the streets, where one could see almost only drunken rabble and meddlesome women. One was begged for, harassed in every way, insulted and suspected for no reason. But on this early autumn day there was such an oppressive sultriness that the stay in my upper level room became quite unpleasant. I chose my most inconspicuous garment, the brown, already damaged travel suit, a simple rain- soaked hat and a crude stick, to distinguish myself as little as possible from those who spoke the big words in the streets. I no longer wore my hair coiffed and powdered, but, according to the new fashion, falling on the shoulders. Today, too, the streets were full of shouting and partly armed mobs. Recruits, adorned with bows and ribbons, were marching off to the threatened frontiers, and the excitement of the first days of September had increased still further. Especially near the prison of La Force, all the scum of Saint Antoine and other suburbs seemed to have gathered. The closer I came to the small gate of the prison, the wilder the raving, singing and shouting swelled. Ragged sansculottes- radicals stood here, armed with pikes and rusty sabers, in dense mobs and apparently waiting for something special. A disgustingly overgrown man, who had a cockscomb like violet growth hanging down over his left eye, as I could clearly observe, sneaked around from one group of people to another and everywhere spoke a few words, which were taken up with ear-tearing howls. I deliberately placed myself in the vicinity of such a confluence, in the midst of which a fury with flying strands of hair wielded a butcher’s axe, and struggled to hear what the people were so excited about. As soon as I arrived the crooked monster started on the group and whispered: “Citizens, do you want to see the aristocrat who will soon come out of this prison door, escape to England once more? She will help the fat Capet and the Austrian woman escape from under your noses. Down therefore with the Intendant of the Austrian whore! Down with Lamballe!” Unanimous shouting announced that they were of one mind with him and not one was willing to let the princess Lamballe go, who was the subject of much talk at the time. “Enough of this gossip, you with your violet growth on your eye!” shouted a person thin as a skeleton. “We want to make cocards out of her guts if she gets into our hands.” “Let me, me!” hoarsely cried a wolf face with enormous jaws and low forehead. “You are all worthless, overcome with pity, when she puts on her little mask -“ “Hey, is your heart made of stone and do you have iron veins, Ruder-Mathieu?” a sloppy woman laughed and pushed the man to the side. “Do you want to see Louis Capet’s souvenir, you pavement kicker?” barked the guy, stretching out a hand surrounded by blue-red rings of scars. “I wore his bracelet for six years, here and on the back of my foot -do you think that makes sugar daddies out of people?” The smell of liquor, old clothes, and the smoke of bad tobacco wafted around me along with the roar of laughter that rose. “Murderers of women. By the grace of the king,” a voice said softly at my ear. “Look at the cattle, the forehead, the thick eyebrows, the bit -“ “What are you whispering about, old fish-head?” The galley convict shook his fist at the human beside me. A small, stooped man quickly ducked into the crowd. “Out with Lamballe! We want the intendant! Break down the door! We want to have a close look at her, back and front, just like her lovers!” “The judges in there are asleep,” crowed the abomination with the facial outgrowth. “We will wake them up!” “Out with her! Make it snappy, you donkey heads in there! Give her to us!” In the roaring and pushing of the supremely heated masses, in the midst of brandished sabers, knives, and lances, I stood and gazed at the door as if paralyzed. I was afraid; a devouring fear seized me, literally crushed me. It was an indescribably horrible feeling, a feeling in which dark knowledge was hidden. I knew what had to come unstoppably, as if I had already experienced it all. A beardless, cheeky face emerged inside me, a receding forehead sown with ulcers, beneath sand-colored stubble hair. I looked around and immediately looked into the middle of the face, which already existed in my imagination. But I resisted, again and again and I succeeded in pushing back the certainty coming from within my inner being, without this effort of the will, I could have said at any moment, blow by blow, what was going to happen now. All this was like a dream within a dream yet of shuddering physicality.
He had left her in the darkness to meditate. Now he was coming back with her torch and her black clothing. Gruffly he told her to put the 2nd degree clothing on. She turned her back and stripped. He was watching her naked body. The bruises were healing, and he wanted her. Slowly she turned around and faced him. Her long red hair framed her breasts. She looked beautiful to him. He reached toward her, and they clung together, kissing as her body pressed against his. His lips sought hers desperately as hers sought his. His hands felt her body, and her scent was wonderful. They stopped and looked at each other.
“This isn’t in the script!” Tobal quipped.
She smiled and began putting on her 2nd degree clothing. They steadied themselves, stepping into the ritual’s next phase. Then they went together toward the main circle for the initiation. Things went well until Becca found herself surrounded by the six menacing, darkly hooded figures she was told she needed to fight. Tobal thought he went crazy at times during battle, but Becca was scary. With a scream of rage that shook him to his core, he watched as she mowed the six figures down like so much grass. She was obviously an advanced martial artist with an axe to grind, and she wasn’t holding anything back.
The first two got broken ribs before they knew what hit them. The first fell from a savage front kick that broke through his guard. In a smooth, fluid motion, a spinning sidekick disabled the second. The third was reaching for her and got a dislocated shoulder as he was thrown into a fourth that wisely stayed on the ground. A spinning backfist was already on its way to number five, and number six had his jaw broken with a deadly kick square to the face. It was all over in less than two minutes, and the only sounds in the cavern were the moans of the injured. For a moment, the cavern held its breath, her rage echoing.
Slowly, sanity came back, and Becca dropped on her knees to the floor, sobbing hysterically. Tobal dropped down beside her and put his arms around her, trying to comfort her. Then he gently helped her up and led her out of the circle and into a quiet corner where they just sat together in silence. He squeezed her hand as the medics took five of the six out of the cave to get medical attention. She started crying again, and he didn’t know what else to do except hold her tightly against his chest. Gradually she relaxed and fell asleep in his arms.
The circle had been disrupted, and several members milled around arguing with each other. Several red-cloaked figures appeared, and one approached them in the darkened corner. As the figure drew closer, Tobal saw that it was Rafe. He put his finger to his lips for silence and indicated that Becca was sleeping. Rafe looked at her thoughtfully, nodded, and turned back to the clustered group of medics. There was some kind of heated discussion in which Rafe was obviously taking part. Then several black-hooded Journeymen were called into the group, and preparations were made to recast the circle and begin Fiona’s initiation.
Becca slept through most of Fiona’s initiation but roused herself as six black-hooded figures surrounded Fiona in the center of the circle. Tobal felt her stiffen, and he gripped her in support. Glancing at him, she relaxed a bit but was still focused intently on what was happening to Fiona. She watched as each figure stood impassively until Fiona tried attacking them. Fiona was fast and dodged several attacks and landed a few of her own but did no real damage. She was also taking a slow beating as one of the hooded figures landed a blow that knocked her to the ground.
Gradually Fiona realized that no one attacked her unless she attacked first. She also realized that only one figure would fight at a time. When she realized this, she stopped fighting and just stood silently in the ring with her arms folded and her eyes glaring defiance.
As one, the circle began to move, and the drums sounded within the cavern, and Fiona’s initiation was completed to the sound of cheers and welcome. Then the High Priest raised his hands for silence.
“There is unfinished business in this circle tonight,” he said. “There are two initiates, and the second initiation must also be completed, and the new initiate welcomed into our group.”
He motioned for Tobal and Becca to come forward.
Becca was hesitant and resisted but continued at Tobal’s reassurance. He took her hand and gently led her into the circle and stopped in front of the High Priest.
The High Priest continued, “Becca, you were charged with the duty of defeating in combat six other Journeymen before you would be able to advance to the Master degree. The six that you fought tonight were supposed to be symbolic in nature, meant to test her spirit, not break her body, but your victories have been real. You have completed the Journeyman degree, but you cannot advance into the Master degree until one year and a day has passed. This is the minimum time requirement. All that remains is to give you the blessings of the God and Goddess of this degree.”
Then raising his hands, he turned to the circle and asked loudly, “Does anyone here dispute the claim that Becca has won her six victories and completed the work of this degree?”
There was stunned silence around the circle, and then some members started moving widdershins, dragging others with them, and soon the entire circle was spinning. The drums were beating, and people were leaping and laughing, yelling and clapping in approval as the initiation concluded, and the wildest party in Tobal’s memory began.
Later he moved over to where Becca and Fiona were talking together. Becca was smiling, and he hoped she felt like she was among friends. He gave her a hug and a smile, and she hugged him back and kissed him lightly on the lips.
“Thanks for helping me through the initiation,” she said.
His eyes twinkled, “Any time, it’s my duty.”
When Tobal woke the next morning, both Fiona and Becca were gone. He had no idea where they had run off to and was slightly disappointed. If they wanted to go off by themselves, it was completely up to them. Mumbling a bit to himself, he left to go find Jake for some sparring practice. After watching Becca take out those six guys last night, he felt he really had a few things to learn.
The End of Book One of the Anarchist Knight Trilogy.
The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel
They had known how to prevent it, if one took them as symbols of a caste, prevented people from reaching the heights of a decent life. Again and again shoved the unfortunates into their doghouses and holes, pressed them into the fronts, and in shallow dalliance mocked the muffled cry from the depths. At last, when even the excessively rich resources that had been withdrawn from the others, ran out, they heaped up the grain of the fields into locked barns, in order to sell sparingly and with usurious profits to the starving, during the coming famine. They had forced a painful bridle between the teeth of the desperate and tightened the reins, while their whip tore bloody weals. Thus the masses had now finally burst their bonds in insane rage and torment, and the dull masses had acquired a flaming will: the will to destroy, to slaughter, to tear to pieces the wanton, the tormentors and to wipe them off this earth forever. Who but knew how to read the people’s faces, in those faces, in their ignorant and still astonished expressions, he knew in retrospect that the power that had been shattered, if it had been used with a little kindness, with wise prudence humanity, would have endured for a long time and could have achieved a bloodless, peaceful transition to a more just distribution of goods. But so it was, as if these kings, dukes, counts and rulers of all kinds had undertaken the ludicrous attempt to see how long and to what extent they could torture patient people, until they would finally rise up against the burden of tortures. And yet I also felt sorry for them. I was soon awakened from my thoughts by the senseless and agitated pushing after me of those who also wanted to be part of the sad procession. I was startled when, with a jerk, everything stopped and the people flowed apart. We had arrived at a not too large square surrounded by old, steeply gabled houses with blackened walls; my feet almost sank in a sticky, dark mud that covered the ground, and I had to find a somewhat elevated spot on the pavement to escape the vile swamp, whose foul-sweet haze enlightened me about its nature. Around me was a wild roar and murmur of voices. All the windows were crowded, and from there cloths were waving to acquaintances on the street. Just in front of me, in the middle of an irregular square, towering over all the heads, hoods and hats, stood a slim, reddish-brown, two-footed gallows, on which at the top under the crossbeam, the drop knife hung slanting and flashing. The posts, between which it ran, shone dark and greasy in the daylight, so much was the wood smeared with blood and human grease. The condemned men rose stiffly and with great effort from the seat boards of the cart. A horse neighed, scenting the haze of the square. The poor condemned who had arrived at their final destination now helped each other politely and courteously to dismount, the old clergyman made an effort to help the crippled Doctor Postremo, who was making terrible faces and chattering with his teeth. I saw the white-powdered hair of the other and the hunchback’s fuzzy head walking the narrow alley between the soldiers. The doomed men quietly and slowly climbed the small staircase up to the blood scaffold. Abusive words flew at them, fists were shaken, ugly, fat market women, who stood in the front row, sitting on benches knitting, were even telling dirty jokes. I saw exactly every single face and except for Postremo, who grimaced, they all looked with a stony attitude in face and gesture towards what was coming. The ring of people around Guillotine’s machine found itself in grinding motion, and I was gradually pushed very close, so that the victims stood with their faces turned toward me. I wished myself far away, to get rid of the terrible pressure under my heart, with which the sight of such sad preparations tormented me. But I could not move, as I was wedged so tightly, I could not even turn my head away from the tangled hair of an unclean woman who smelled of garlic, and I had to be sneezed on from behind by a man who had caught the sniffles. But these small adversities quickly faded before a nameless horror. Now a giant swung onto the scaffolding, whose sight surpassed in meanness everything I had ever seen in my varied life. On tremendously broad shoulders, over a naked, red- haired chest and muscular arms rose the face of a devilish monkey with bared teeth, maliciously glowing eyes and a fiery comb of red-yellow bristles. Samson, whose portrait I had seen in a bookstore, it was not. I knew that he was indisposed and that his first assistant was standing in for him. Horror seized me at the sight of this guy. This man-beast, who was followed by two crude-looking figures grinned, licked his blue lips and then pointed with a flat thumb at Postremo. The two guys behind him pounced on the hunchback in an instant, who kicked with his feet, hissed incomprehensible words and pulled his misshapen head even deeper into his shoulders. They tied him with lightning speed to a vertical board, and tipped him over, so that the helpless man was lying with his chin on a double board, cut out in the shape of a semicircle, the upper half of which was now pulled down between the posts and pressed down. A shiver ran through me, as the red-haired, blood-black hand of the executioner pushed a protruding knob in the post. The guillotine whistled down. Something jumped into a basket, the hunched body twisted, writhing, and flapping its feet, just as poor Bavarian Haymon did under the murderous ring, and from a huge dark- red wound, from which a flashing semicircle seemed to hang, blood gushed out in thick streams, which then gurgled and ran heavily down the side wall. The executioner’s hand reached into the basket, lifted the head up high by the stained, white hair. The axe had not reached the neck, and so the lower jaw was severed and hung separated with the semicircle of the teeth on the body, so that I once more saw the mutilated grimace of the doctor. And this hideous head slowly drew the eyelid over the right eye, as if he wanted to wink at me. “It’s not pretty, citizen – but how could he have dressed up the hunchback angel maker any other way?” said a craftsman next to me, pulling out a flask from the upper, opened part of his burn-stained apron smock. “Here, drink once
this will keep the food down if it wants to rise from the stomach!” I took a sip of the pungent and burning juniper brandy, and the trickling warmth inside gave me strength. Once again I looked around me to see if I could not escape from what was coming, but it was impossible to squeeze through this wall of human bodies. A wall was around me that no one could have penetrated. So I had to witness the execution of all six condemned, and each time the leathery clap of the falling knife sounded, I trembled from my head to my feet. The cold sweat broke out and my legs trembled violently. The last of the crowd, after the old lady, who died quietly and without any movement, came the officer of the Flanders Regiment, who had remained loyal to the king the longest. He placed himself at the board. While the executioners nimbly fastened the blood-soaked straps around his body, he looked at the blood man’s face with eyes flashing with anger and said loud and clear: “Do not dare to hold up my head with your paws, red- bristled pig!” But the executioner just pursed his bulging lips, waited for the overturning of the board and the clasping of the neck in the hole formed by the two semicircles of the double boards, dropped the axe that the two blood fountains sprang from the stump of the neck, and reached into the basket. But immediately, with a grunt of pain, he pulled his hand out of the basket and flung his index finger rapidly back and forth in the air, as if he had touched red-hot iron. In a senseless rage, he kicked the basket several times with his foot, so that the severed head bounced and jumped in it. Then he hid the finger of his right hand in his clenched left hand and uttered a blasphemous curse. “The aristocrat bit his finger!” The man with the apron smock shouted. “They are not so easily killed, these haughty ones!” Then, as if a bright light shone on me from heaven, I thought of Isa Bektschi and the parable of the beheaded evildoer, who used the last of his last strong will with a similar thought of revenge. Meanwhile, one of the servants, a jaunty black man, jumped up to the basket, looked inside, at which the bystanders had to laugh, and, grasping his hair with two fingers, lifted his head out. The eyes of the dead man looked half-closed, contemptuously staring at the gawking crowd, and a thin red stripe ran down his chin. Cursing, the redhead climbed down from the scaffold. In the depths of my soul, I understood the effort of the priest, perhaps not entirely comprehensible to himself, although he eagerly displayed it, with which he exhorted the dying to focus all their thoughts only on eternal bliss, repentance of sins, and the continuation of life in God, and to do away with all thoughts of revenge and earthly desires. What immeasurable wisdom lay hidden in this need, what promise and what consolation! An indescribably joyful knowledge glowed through me when I thought of such things and I almost regretted that my own path had not ended here. Now that there was nothing more to see, the crowd loosened and flowed away, getting lost in the side streets. The windows closed, and the two helpers appeared with water and a cart on which they loaded the dead remains of the executed in a crude manner. I still stood spellbound in my thoughts of Isa Bektschi’s words, which he spoke to me, when I lay ill in the haunted room at Krottenriede, when I felt that someone was looking at me. When I turned quickly, my eyes met those of a still young man with a brownish face of regular cut and dark eyes, from which an extraordinary willpower flashed at me. A great power emanated from this gaze, with the strange, austere beauty of the face and the harsh mouth that harmonized.
The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel
“A knife hangs – falls -. -Ah!” A shriek came from her mouth. She squirmed in her chair, half opened her eyes, so that one could see the whiteness, jumped up briefly in the chair and fell back heavily. Everybody had jumped up. “A hysteric,” someone said loudly. “For today the demonstration is finished,” sounded the voice of the man standing next to her. “I hope that the gentleman has not been left unsatisfied, namely the gentleman who has had his rooster stolen.” Someone gave a forced laugh. Everyone was pushing towards the exit, pursued by the sneering looks of the pale man. I looked around once again. The girl was awake, looking around confused and astonished. A shiver ran down my spine, as if death were standing behind me. We hastily descended the stairs. “It’s a pity I didn’t ask to know the day of my death,” crowed Magister Fleck. “Could have made my dispositions in good time.” “You did well to omit that question.” It was Doctor Schlurich who spoke these words. No one made any reply. In the thick, gray river fog that rolled through the streets, we parted. Silently I walked next to Doctor Schlurich. “I suspected that she was deceiving me. But it hurts when you know for sure,” he said softly. He shook my hand and disappeared around the next street corner. Far and near sounded the calls of the patrols and watchmen. “A knife hangs – then falls -“, The Pythia had shouted. Icy cold crept under my coat and shook me. The handle of the bell pull at the inn was a small, brassy hand, a small, cold hand of death. When my extra mail coach had crossed the French border, and the horses had to be fed and watered in a respectable spot, I went to the inn and had an egg dish prepared for me. The tables around me were full of people. Carters, peasants, merchants, burghers and craftsmen were discussing with all the liveliness of their nature the latest incidents, the increasing frequency of executions. Recently, very close to this place the castle of a very haughty and extremely hard-hearted Viscount against lowly people, was stormed by the peasants and after a thorough plundering was set on fire. Some of those who drank the thick red wine openly boasted of the deeds they had committed. When I heard how beastly the people had been in the priceless library and in the picture gallery of the castle, how they had used the porcelain as chamber pots before smashing it as night crockery, I had to think of the words of Doctor Schlurich, who warned me against observing revolutions at close range. Then, when a very ugly, badly scarred fellow started to boast, bawling, how he had speared “Bijou”, the favorite dog of the lady of the castle, on a pike and carried it around squirming alive for an hour whimpering, until it finally died in pain and fear, I was seized by a furious anger against this two-legged beast. But immediately, like a black cloud, the memory of a dog fell on me, whose faithful love I had destroyed in a senseless fit of rage with a deadly stone throw. No, I had no right to be a judge, even though I had only acted in a violent fit of temper, but this man, however had acted in diabolic malice. Tormentingly the thought rose in me that there were people who were evil by nature -. What should happen to them? “Melchior Dronte!” fluted a repulsive voice. “Melchior! Beautiful Melchior!” I was so frightened that I almost knocked my wine glass off the table. I looked to where the voice had come from, and saw an old woman, covered with dirt and rags, sitting at a table. She had a box of multicolored slips of paper sitting next to her, from which a short pole with a crossbar was sticking up. But on the wood sat a parrot, in whose blue-gray, wrinkled skin only a few quills were still stuck, while the large head with the rolling eyes was wrinkled and completely bald. The woman, noticing my gaze, hurriedly stood up, approached my place and after she had slung the strap over her shoulder, blew her burning breath into my face: “Beautiful, young Herr, Apollonius will tell you prophesy!” Despite her pitiful appearance, the dripping drunkard’s nose and the inflamed eyes I recognized in her the beautiful Laurette and in the parrot, the monster of the Spanish Envoy. A sharp pain went through my heart when I compared the image of Sattler’s Lorle against this gruesome, lemur-like apparition. Although the infernal parrot had called me by my name, there was not a spark of memory in her poor, devastated face. Instead I recognized in the squinting look of the bird such a rage that I could not free myself from a feeling of fear. The dull, old woman, who had once been young, rosy and innocent in my arms, looked at me out of half-blinded eyes and repeated the slurred phrase from before. I slipped a coin into her gouty fingers, which she put in her mouth in a disgusting way for safekeeping, and I saw with satisfaction that for the time being no one was paying any attention to us. “Sicut cadaver -,” chuckled the bird. “Kiss her like a corpse, fair Melchior!” I approached him and said, as if speaking to a human being: “May you soon be redeemed, poor soul!” Was it really I who suddenly found these words? The parrot looked at me with a fixed gaze. All malice disappeared from his eyes, and two large tears rolled down his beak, as I had seen before. It was eerie and poignant beyond measure. “Misericordia,” he groaned. “Mercy!” And then he hurriedly climbed down the short pole, rummaged back and forth with his beak in the colorful papers and grabbed a fiery red one, which he held out to me. I took the paper from his beak and gave the poor Laurette a gold piece and nodded to her. Not a ray of remembrance flickered in her features. With her box, on the crossbar of which the parrot lowered its head on her bare breast, she shuffled to the nearest table. “O mon Dieu!,” cried the parrot, and the hopeless tone of this lament went through my marrow and legs. “Keep your basilisk quiet, you old bone box,” cried a carter in a blue smock at the neighboring table. “No one understands its own words. There are no loud aristocrats here, who take pleasure in such silliness!” “Why don’t you turn the collar on that stinking grain- eater, Blaise?” shouted a miller’s boy covered in white dust. “And if you get your hands on an aristocrat, by the way – I’ll be happy to help you!” he said, half aloud, with a wry look at me. Startled, the old woman limped away from the table and huddled in her corner again. I observed the people, who were mainly given to boastful speeches and certainly not all of them were malicious, and drank my wine slowly. Besides, I had to wait for the new mail coach driver before I could continue my journey. I put the red square slip of paper from the box of the beautiful Laurette down on the tabletop, and although I told myself that such things could have no meaning at all, I had to remember that Apollonius had selected this note for me and I wanted to pay serious attention to it. In bad print under a series of astrological signs was written: “There is a great danger threatening you, which is not in your power to ward off. A tremendous change will happen to you, but fear nothing: for you it will be nothing more than the precursor to a new life.” I could not see anything else in this writing other than the ambiguous and naturally quite indeterminate nature of such fortunes which are given for a piece of copper, and selected from the heap of similar ambiguous sayings by an animal which is usually trained for this purpose, nevertheless this small piece of paper moved me in a significant way. And even though I was distressed at Laurette’s fate, the fate of so many careless and frivolous girls and women, I was almost more moved by pity for the soul, which in a miserable, slowly dying bird body had to atone for a terrible sin unknown to me. I was heartily pleased when the new mail coach driver, a young Frenchman adorned with the tricolor cockade, came in and then politely asked me to get ready for the onward journey. As I left the room, it was as if I heard scornful laughter and swearing aimed at me. I made an effort to remain completely calm and to excuse the groundless bitterness of people because of the injustice that had been inflicted on them for many generations. I was quite happy when I drove away in the coach. Admittedly, I was accompanied by all kinds of heavy thoughts. The sight of my former playmate, whom I had left in splendor and glory in Vienna and found her here as a pitiable, and trampled person deprived of reason, and even more the eerie encounter with the ghostly bird Apollonius, in which a damned soul was atoning, and lastly, the painful observation that undiscriminating hatred and blind vindictiveness rose up like an ugly layer of mold in this image of a great national revolution – all this saddened me very much and almost made me regret having undertaken this dangerous and exhausting journey. But at the same time, I felt the compelling necessity of a fateful decision, which drove me on and perhaps even more than that: the desire that came from the depths for the fulfillment and completion of what I had been destined to do. Also the conversation with the new coach driver, which he began with me, half turned back, did not help to cheer me up. He saw; that I was a gentleman of distinction, and in spite of the drivel about freedom and equality, this was a source of refreshment to him. Every day he had to deal with the lowest classes of society, who made big words and boasted of their bad manners. Nevertheless, the farther we got into the country, the more he wanted to advise me all the more urgently to howl with the wolves and in particular not to meet in public places, as I had just done, to stay away from the mob. Nothing irritates the rabble more than silent disrespect, for which the otherwise thick-skinned fellows have an exceptionally sensitive feeling. There was nothing else to do than to leave pride aside and be fresh with every brother and pig. For the time being, only the most hated and well-known oppressors of the common man, who succeeded in getting away with their bare lives, should still be happy. But as the signs were, it would soon go against all the nobles, but then also against those who were intellectually superior to the lower people, since they were considered protectors and friends of the old order. Whether the individual lived righteously and honestly, whether he perhaps had even been a faithful helper of the poor and oppressed, or even suffered hardship for their sake, blood-drunk mobs did not think about that.
The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel
“Maybe so, maybe so,” growled a fat, frowning man with a coarse face and a high collar. “Nevertheless, it would be a mistake to consider the not yet confirmed fraud from the outset as a premise. We are man enough to get to the bottom of the thing, and I’m not concerned with light phenomena or nonsensical tapping.” Just then, a small wallpaper door opened, and a somewhat crooked, elderly girl with an unattractive and yellow face entered. She was dressed in a gray silk robe and sat down in the arm chair after a curtsy to those present, spreading and smoothing her skirt. Behind her stepped a darkly dressed man with an unpleasant facial expression and piercing eyes, whose age was between thirty and forty, not far from that of the woman. In his face, strangely enough, the facial expressions changed constantly, so that one could believe, his mood swung between laughing and crying. He bowed, collected the required douceur on a silver plate, put the plate in front of one of the candelabras, bowed again and then said with a hard accent, as it is peculiar to German-speaking Russians: “This Demoiselle Maria Theresia Köckering, from Reval, 38 years old, is capable of answering all the questions addressed to her, whether they concern the past, the present or future of the esteemed personalities present here, once she has gone into magnetic sleep.” He approached the table, extinguished some of the brightly burning wax candles, then went to the motionless girl, stretched out his fingers toward her face and softly stroked her forehead, eyes and temples several times. Then he turned around. “She’s asleep now,” he said. We looked at her and had the impression of a seated person deeply lost in sleep. “I beg your pardon, my highly respectable gentlemen!” continued the man in a subdued voice. “There is a certain amount of silence required for the experiment. If the questions asked are answered well I ask you to confirm half aloud that the answer was correct. If it is not, I ask you to point out without agitation, whereupon I will renew the question. For it happens that the sensitive mind of the demoiselle can experience confusion caused by scary images from other regions. Any fair examination and investigation is permitted. Strictly forbidden is disturbing noise, rough calling, abrupt touching, since physical fright endangers the life of the demoiselle in the highest, because in such a state the soul is only very loosely connected with the body.” A short, disapproving clearing of the throat came from the row of listeners. But the presenter did not pay attention to it, but continued speaking: “For the time being, I will ask some questions myself. So that the learned audience will understand the simplicity of the process and the impossibility of fraud. “Demoiselle Maria Theresial” he addressed the sleeping woman in a raised tone. In a moment, the face of the sleeper began to twitch, and her hands moved restlessly back and forth, grasping at the air and in turn fingering the armrests of the chair. “Do you hear me, demoiselle?” “I hear,” she said with a strangely altered and deeper sounding rough voice. “The names of the distinguished and learned gentlemen present here in their seating order from right to left?” To us he said behind his held out hand. “She sees everything as it were in a mirror, and that’s how she calculates.” The trembling and grimacing became more severe, then a kind of smile appeared flippantly on her face, and she spoke inexorably, rapidly and without any pause in between: “Doctor Achaz Moll, Professor Gisbertus van der Meulen, Doctor Johannes Baptista Schlurich, Baron Melchior von Dronte, Magister Benedikt Fleck, Spectabilitas Doctor Imanuel Balaenarius, Doctor Veit Pfefferich.” A murmur and nod of approval followed. But Magister Fleck said half aloud, such knowledge can be obtained from such highly famous men. The man with the sleeping woman shook his head with an angry expression and asked a second question: “Tell me, demoiselle, on what important work that gentleman is currently working on, who is raising his hand?” He gave us a sign, and Spectabilis raised his hand, silently invited by all. Köckering became lively again, moved her lips, put her hand up several times and then out: “About the healing effect of pure water in case of Obstipatio and about the harm of too frequent purging.” “Bene,” said the dean, “Admirable!” “This, too, can be brought to light – “, whispered the suspicious red haired magister. “I now ask the honored gentlemen, to ask your own questions as you see fit.” The magnetizer looked with a sharp glance at the magister and with a wave of his hand motioned him to speak. “How — how much money do I have in my pocket?” the latter stammered, visibly surprised. The woman answered without reflection: “One Laubtaler, but it’s fake, and five silver groschen.” The questioner pulled out his little pouch and counted the small amount of cash. It was true. “Quite nice,” grumbled Doctor Moll, and his double chin rested gloomily on his high tie. “When he asks for his pennies, is it as well to inquire who stole my reddish-brown rooster from my house six days ago?” “Leberecht Piepmal,” came back immediately. “That thunder may smite you!” the coarse voice started up. “That must be true! I immediately said to my beloved, that Piepmal and no other –“ “Piano, my lord,” the organizer admonished unwillingly. “Just not too loud! Another of the gentlemen, if you please” “On which day of the week, month and year did the woman I loved the most pass away?” one of the gentlemen said softly. The face of the sleeping woman distorted painfully, her mouth closed tightly, and after a while she understood: “Wednesday, the 12th of Hornung 1754.” “My mother!” A heavy sigh said, that the question had been answered correctly. I took heart and raised my voice: “Who visited me there, from where I came to this city?” The sleeping woman stroked with her hand the back of the chair, shook her head softly, and then let out a sound like a soft laugh and spoke: “You yourself -” she said. A murmur rose. “Attention, Demoiselle!” sounded the commanding voice. “The gentleman himself could not have done it. Once more!” “Isa Bektschi – yourself — your brother in you-.-” she whispered, barely audible, “Ewli -“ “I ask, my lord, whether this answer is understandable to you?” I nodded mutely. “But we don’t understand it,” the magister blurted out. “What do you mean by that?” “What do you mean demoiselle?” the man repeated readily. “The coming back,” she breathed. “She babbles,” grumbled Doctor Pepperich. “Still, some things have been amazing so far. May I do one more question?” “Please.” “What is it? It’s on my desk at home, once alive and very clever and is now useless and dead.” The magnetized one breathed heavily, thought strenuously and reached out with her hand to her throat, catching her breath with difficulty, as if a choking attack was coming over her. Then she said heavily: “The hand – of the – hanged Janitschek from Prague.” The doctor passed a blue cloth over his sweating forehead. “Guessed,” he gasped. “The hand of the Bohemian thief lies withered on my table.” “It is astonishing, after all,” Dean Balaenarius cleared his throat. “The phenomenon is not so easy to grasp -.” The man in the dark habit stepped forward. “My esteemed ones,” he said. “The Demoiselle is greatly fatigued and in need of early rest. May I ask for a few more questions about the future?” But no one moved. No one seemed to have the desire to look behind the dark veil. Then Doctor Schlurich half rose from his seat, opened his mouth, wanted to speak, but changed his mind and sat down again. “Right now he is with her,” said Köckering tonelessly. The doctor made a defensive gesture, as if he didn’t want to hear anything, and leaned back, deathly pale, with quivering lips, in his chair. “That was her oath-!” I heard him say softly. “May I do one more question?” I stood up. So far I had remained so dazed by what the clairvoyant had told me that everything around me was as if in a dream, but only at the surface, as I had been lost in my own thoughts. A silent, somewhat impatient movement of the hand invited me. “When will I see Isa Bektschi again?” I asked. The demoiselle raised her head, shuddered inward and groaned.
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