 |
| Jean Metzinger, 1911, Étude pour le portrait de Guillaume Apollinaire, graphite on paper, 48 × 31.2 cm, Musée National d'Art Moderne, Centre Georges Pompidou, Paris |
THE PRAGUE PASS
By
Guillaume Apollinaire [1880-1918]
Excerpt
from “The Heresiarch & Cie,” 1910.
In March 1902 I went to Prague.
I arrived
from Dresden.
From
Bodenbach, where the Austrian customs are, the appearance of the railway
employees had shown me that German stiffness does not exist in the Hapsburg
empire.
When at the
station I inquired of the order, in order to deposit my suitcase, the clerk
took it from me; then, taking from his pocket a ticket for a long time used and
greasy, he tore it in half and gave me a half, inviting me to keep it
carefully. He assured me that, for his part, he would do the same for the other
half, and that, as the two fragments of the note coincided, I would prove to be
the owner of the baggage when it pleased me to return to his possession. He
greeted me by removing his disgraceful Austrian kepi.
At the exit
of the station François-Joseph, after having dismissed the faquins, of Italian
obsequiousness, who offered themselves in an incomprehensible German, I engaged
in old streets, in order to find a lodging related to my purse of a poor
traveler. According to a rather unseemly habit, but very convenient when one
knows nothing of a city, I inquired of several passers-by.
For my
astonishment, the first five did not understand a word of German, but only
Czech. The sixth, to whom I spoke, listened to me, smiled, and replied in
French:
"Speak
French, sir, we hate the Germans much more than the French do. We hate them,
these people who want to impose their language, take advantage of our
industries and our soil whose fertility produces everything, wine, coal,
precious stones and precious metals, all except salt. In Prague, we speak only
Czech. But when you speak French, those who know how to answer you will always
be happy.
He pointed
out to me a hotel in a street whose name was spelled so that it was pronounced
Porjitz , and took leave, assuring me of his sympathy for France.
A few days
before, Paris had celebrated the centenary of Victor Hugo.
I was able
to realize that the Bohemian sympathies, shown on this occasion, were not in
vain. On the walls, beautiful posters announced the Czech translations of
Victor Hugo's novels. The storefronts of the bookstores seemed true bibliographical
museums of the poet. On the windows were pasted excerpts of Parisian newspapers
recounting the visit of the mayor of Prague and Sokols . I still wonder what
the role of gymnastics was in this case.
The ground
floor of the hotel which had been indicated to me, was occupied by a singing
cafe. On the first floor I found an old woman who, after having debated the
price, took me to a narrow room where there were two beds. I specified that I
meant to live alone. The woman smiled, and told me I would do as I thought;
that in any case I would easily find a companion at the café-chanting of the
ground floor.
I went out,
intending to walk for as long as it was light, and then dine at a bohemian inn.
According to my custom, I inquired of a passer-by. It happened that he also
recognized my accent and replied in French:
"I am
a stranger like you, but I know enough about Prague and its beauties to invite
you to accompany me through the city.
I looked at
the man. He looked sixty, but still green. Apparent clothing consisted of a
long brown coat with otter collar, black cloth trousers narrow enough to mold a
calf that was guessed very muscular. He was wearing a large black felt hat, as
the German teachers often wear. His forehead was surrounded by a strip of black
silk. His soft leather shoes, without heels, stifled the sound of his equal and
slow steps like those of someone who, having a long way to go, does not want to
be tired when he reaches the goal. We went without speaking. I detailed the
profile of my companion. The face disappeared almost in the mass of the beard,
mustaches, and disproportionately long but carefully combed hair, of ermine
whiteness. Yet we could see the thick, purple lips. The nose prominent, hairy
and curved. Near a urinal, the stranger stopped and said to me:
-Sorry sir.
I followed
him. I saw that his pants were decked. As soon as we were out
"Look
at these old houses," he said; they preserve the signs which distinguished
them before they had been numbered. Here is the house to the Virgin , that one
is to the Eagle, and here is the house to the Chevalier .
Above the
portal of the latter a date was engraved.
The old man
read it aloud:
-1721.
Where was I? On the 21st of June, 1721, I arrived at the gates of Munich.
I listened,
frightened, and thinking I was dealing with a madman. He looked at me and
smiled, discovering toothless gums. He continued:
I arrived
at the gates of Munich. But it seems that my face did not please the soldiers
of the post because they interrogated me in a very indiscreet way. My answers
did not satisfy them, they tied me up and led me to the inquisitors. Although
my conscience was clear, I was not very reassured. On the way, the view of
Saint Onuphre, painted on the house currently numbered 17 Marienplatz, assured me
that I would live at least until the next day. Because this image has the
property of granting a day of life to who looks at it. It is true that for me
this view was of little use; I have the ironic certainty of surviving. The
judges set me free, and for a week I went for a walk in Munich.
"You
were very young then," I said to say something; very young!
He replied
in a tone of indifference:
-More than
two centuries old. But, except for the costume, I had the same appearance as
today. It was not my first visit to Munich. I had come there in 1334, and I
still remember two processions that I met there. The first was composed of
archers marching a ribald, who valiantly opposed popular boos and royally
carried his wreath of straw, an infamous diadem at the top of which tinkled a
bell; two long braids of straw went down to the hocks of the beautiful girl.
Her shackled hands were crossed over her venerously advancing belly, in the
fashion of a time when the beauty of women was to appear pregnant. This is their
only beauty. The second procession was that of a Jew who was being hanged. With
the screaming crowd and drunk beer, I walked to the gallows. The Jew's head was
caught in an iron mask painted red. This mask hid a diabolical figure, whose
ears had, in fact, the shape of the cornets which are the donkey's ears on
which the bad children are capped. The nose lengthened in point, and, heavy,
forced the unfortunate man to walk bent. An immense, flat, narrow and rolled
tongue completed this inconvenient toy. No woman had pity on the Jew. None had
the idea of wiping her sweaty face under the mask, -as this stranger who
wiped Jesus' face with the cloth called Sainte-Veronique. Having noticed that a
valet of the procession was leading two large dogs on a leash, the plebs
demanded that they be hanged beside the Jew. I found that it
-You are
Israelite, are not you? I said simply.
He
answered:
-I am the
Wandering Jew. You had probably already guessed it. I am the Eternal Jew-that's
what the Germans call me. I am Isaac Laquedem.
I gave him
my card and said:
"You
were in Paris last year, in April, were not you? And you chalked your name on a
wall in the Rue de Bretagne. I remember reading it one day when, on the
imperial omnibus, I went to the Bastille.
He said it
was true, and I continued:
Do you
often get the name of Ahasuerus?
-My God,
these names belong to me and many more! The lament that we sang after my visit
to Brussels names me Isaac Laquedem, after Philippe Mouskes, who, in 1243, put
my story in Flemish rhymes. The English chronicler Mathieu de Paris, who had it
from the Armenian patriarch, had already told it. Since then, poets and
chroniclers have often reported my passages, under the name of Ahasver,
Ahasuerus or Ahasvere, in such and such cities. The Italians call me
Buttadio-in Latin Buttadeus; -the Bretons, Boudedeo; the Spaniards, Juan
Espera-en-Dios. I prefer the name of Isaac Laquedem, under whom I have often
been seen in Holland.
Some
authors claim that I was porter at Pontius Pilate, and that my name was
Karthaphilos. Others see me as a cobbler, and the city of Bern is honored to
keep a pair of boots that are claimed to have been made by me and which I would
have left after my passage.
But I will not say
anything about my identity except that Jesus ordered me to walk until he
returned.
I have not
read the works I have inspired, but I know the names of the authors. They are:
Goethe, Schubart, Schlegel, Schreiber, von Schenck, Pfizer, W. Müller, Lenau,
Zedlitz, Mosens, Kohler, Klingemann, Levin, Schüking, Andersen, Heller, Herrig,
Hamerling, Robert Giseke, Carmen Sylva, Hellig, Neubaur, Paulus Cassel, Edgard
Quinet, Eugène Suë, Gaston Paris, Jean Richepin, Jules Jouy, the Englishman
Conway, the Max Haushofer Pragois and Suchomel. It is fair to add that all
these authors have helped themselves with the little book of peddling which,
published in Leiden in 1602, was immediately translated into Latin, French, and
Dutch, and was rejuvenated and augmented by Simrock in his popular German
books.
But look!
Here is the Ring or Place de Greve. This church contains the tomb of the
astronomer Tycho Brahe; John Huss preached there, and its walls keep the marks
of the balls of the wars of Thirty Years and Seven Years.
We were
silent, visited the church, and then heard the clocks at the clock of the Hotel
de Ville. Death, pulling the rope, sounded shaking his head. Other statuettes
moved, while the rooster fluttered its wings and, before an open window, the
Twelve Apostles passed by casting an impassive glance on the street. After
visiting the desolate prison called Schbinskawe walked through the Jewish
quarter with old clothes, scrap metal and other nameless things. Butchers were
laying calves. Booted women hurried. Jews in mourning passed, recognizable by their
torn clothes. The children apostrophaient in Czech or Hebrew jargon. We
visited, with our heads covered, the ancient synagogue, where the women do not
enter during the ceremonies, but look through a skylight. This synagogue looks
like a tomb, where the old roll of parchment, which is an admirable Torah,
sleeps veiled.
Then
Laquedem read at the clock of the Jewish Town Hall that it was three o'clock.
This clock has Hebrew numerals and its hands go backwards. We passed the Moldau
on the Carlsbrücke, bridge from which St. John Nepomucenus, martyr of the
secret of Confession, was thrown into the river. From this bridge decorated
with pious statues, there is the magnificent spectacle of the Moldau and the
whole city of Prague with its churches and convents.
In front of
us was the hill of Hradschin. While we were going up between the palaces, we
spoke.
"I
thought," said I, "that you do not exist. Your legend, it seemed to
me, symbolized your wandering race ... I love Jews, sir. They move pleasantly
and there are some unhappy ones ... So, it's true, Jesus drove you away?
-It's true,
but let's not talk about that. I am accustomed to my life without end and
without rest. Because I do not sleep. I walk ceaselessly, and will walk again
while the Fifteen Signs of the Last Judgment manifest themselves. But I do not
walk a way of the cross, my roads are happy. Immortal and unique witness of the
presence of Christ on earth, I attest to men the reality of the divine and
redeeming drama that ended on Golgotha. What glory! What joy! But I have also
been for nineteen centuries the spectator of Humanity, which gives me wonderful
entertainments. My sin, sir, was a sin of genius, and I have long since ceased
repenting it.
He was
silent. We visited the royal castle of Hradschin, with majestic and desolate
halls, then the cathedral, where are the royal tombs and the silver shrine of
Saint Nepomucene. In the chapel where the kings of Bohemia were crowned, and
where the holy king Wenceslas suffered martyrdom, Laquedem pointed out to me
that the walls were of gems: agates and amethysts. He told me an amethyst:
- See, in
the center, the veins draw a face with flaming and crazy eyes. It is said that
it is Napoleon's mask.
"It's
my face," I exclaimed, with my dark and jealous eyes!
And that's
true. It is there, my painful portrait, near the bronze door where hangs the
ring that held Saint Wenceslas when he was massacred. We had to go out. I was
pale and unhappy at having seen myself mad, I who are so afraid of becoming so.
Laquedem, pitiful, consoled me and said to me:
-Do not
visit more monuments. Let's walk in the streets. Look closely at Prague;
Humboldt says it is among the five most interesting cities in Europe.
-Do you
read then?
-Oh!
sometimes, good books, while walking ... Come on, laugh! I also like walking
sometimes.
-What! you
love and are never jealous?
My love for
a moment is worth a century's love. But, luckily, no one follows me, and I do
not have time to take this habit from which jealousy arises. Come on, laugh! fear
neither the future nor death. We are never sure of dying. Do you believe that I
am alone in not being dead! Remember Enoch, Elijah, Empedocles, Apollonius of
Tyana. Is there no one in the world to believe that Napoleon is still alive?
And this unfortunate King of Bavaria, Louis II! Ask the Bavarians. All will
affirm that their magnificent and crazy king is still alive. You yourself may
not die.
The night
was coming down and the lights were coming on the city. We repassed the Moldau
by a more modern bridge:
"It's
time for dinner," said Laquedem. "The march excites the appetite, and
I am a big eater.
We entered
an inn where we made music.
There was a
violinist there; a man who held the drum, the bass drum and the triangle; a
third, which touched a kind of harmonium with two small keyboards juxtaposed
and placed on bellows. These three musicians made a sound of the devil and
accompanied paprika goulash , fried potatoes mixed with cumin, poppy seed bread
and bitter beer from Pilsen. Laquedem ate standing while walking in the room.
The musicians played and then quest. Meanwhile, the room was filled with the
guttural voices of its guests, all gypsy ball-headed, round-faced, nose in the
air. Laquedem spoke deliberately. I saw that he was telling me. They looked at
me; someone came to shake my hand, saying:
"Live
the Frantze!"
The music
played the Marseillaise . Gradually the inn fills. There were women too. So, we
danced. Laquedem seized the pretty girl of the host, and seeing them delighted
me. Both danced like angels, as the Talmud says, who calls the angels masters
of dance . Suddenly, he grabbed his dancer, lifted her up and went to the
applause of everyone. When the girl was on her feet again, she was serious and
almost swooning. Laquedem gave him a kiss that slammed juvenile. He wanted to
pay his fee, the amount of which was one florin. For this purpose he drew his
purse, sister of that of Fortunatus and never empty of the legendary five sous.
We left the
inn and crossed the large rectangular square called Wenzelplatz, Viehmarkt,
Rossmarkt or Vàclavské Nàmesti. It was ten o'clock. In the light of the street
lamps, women were prowling, and we heard some inviting Czech words whispering
in passing. Laquedem dragged me into the Jewish city saying:
-You will
see: for the night, each house has turned into lupanar.
It was
true. At each door stood, standing or sitting, head covered with a shawl, a
matron mumbling the call for love at night. All of a sudden, Laquedem says:
-Do you
want to come to the Royal Vineyards district? There are girls of fourteen to
fifteen years, whom philopedeans themselves would find of their taste.
I declined
this tempting offer. In a nearby house we drank Hungarian wine with women in
bathrobes, German, Hungarian or bohemian. The party became foul, but I did not
interfere.
Laquedem
despised my reserve. He undertook a Hungarian knuckle and fessue. Soon
disheveled, he dragged the girl, who was afraid of the old man. His circumcised
sex evoked a gnarled trunk, or this post of Redskins, variegated with Sienna,
scarlet, and the dark purple of the stormy skies. After a quarter of an hour
they came back. The weary girl, in love, but frightened, shouted in German:
-He walked
all the time, he walked all the time!
Laquedem
laughed; we paid and departed. He tells me:
- I was
very happy with this girl and I am rarely satisfied. I do not remember such
pleasures as in Forli, in 1267, when I had a virgin. I was also happy to Siena,
I do not know what year the XIV th century, with a Fornarina bride, whose hair
was the color of toast. In 1542, in Hamburg, I was so in love that I went to a
church barefoot and begged God in vain to forgive me and allow me to stop. That
day, during the sermon, I was recognized and accosted by student Paulus von
Eitzen, who became bishop of Schleswig. He related his adventure to his
companion Chrysostome Dædalus, who printed it in 1564.
-You live!
I said.
-Yes! I
live a life almost divine, like a Wotan, never sad. But, I feel it, I have to
leave. I'm tired of Prague! You fall asleep. Go to sleep. Farewell!
I took his
long dry hand:
"Goodbye,
Wandering Jew, happy and aimless traveler! Your optimism is not mediocre, and
they are mad who represents you as a hasty adventurer and haunted by remorse.
-Remorse?
Why? Keep the peace of mind and be mean. The good ones will thank you for it.
Christ! I flouted it. He made me superhuman. Farewell!...
I followed
my eyes as he walked away in the cold night, the play of his shadow, simple,
double, or triple, according to the light of the street lamps.
Suddenly,
he waved his arms, uttered a lamentable cry of wounded animal and fell to the
ground.
I ran
screaming. I knelt down and unbuttoned his shirt. He turned to me with lost
eyes and spoke confusedly:
-Thank you.
The time has come. Every ninety or one hundred years, a terrible evil strikes
me. But I heal myself, and then have the necessary strength for a new century
of life.
And he
lamented, saying:
-Oi! oï,
which means "alas!" in Hebrew.
During this
time, all the jewish quarter of the Jewish quarter, attracted by cries, had
gone down to the street. The police ran. There were also barely dressed men who
had hurried up from their beds. Heads appeared at the windows. I walked away
and watched the procession of police officers carrying Laquedem away, followed
by the crowd of men without a hat and girls in starched white robes.
Soon there
remained in the street only an old Jew in the eyes of a prophet. He looked at
me defiantly and murmured in German:
-It's a
Jew. He will die.
And I saw
that before entering his house, he opened his coat and tore his shirt,
diagonally.
###
For the
complete novel thank The Gutenberg Project for bringing it to its public domain
site in English. Click here.
 |
| Guillaume Apollinaire photographed in the Paris studio of Pablo Picasso, 1910 |
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Guillaume
Apollinaire was a French poet, playwright, short story writer, novelist, and
art critic of Polish-Belarusian descent.
He ran in the same Parisian circles as Pablo Picasso, Amadeo Modigliani,
Jean Cocteau, Jean Metzinger, Henri Rousseau Gertrude Stein, Max Jacob, Andre
Salmon, Andre Breton, Marc Chagall, Marcel Duchamp and others.
Apollinaire
is considered one of the foremost poets of the early 20th century, as well as
one of the most impassioned defenders of Cubism and a forefather of Surrealism.
He is credited with coining the term "cubism" in 1911 to describe the
emerging art movement and the term "surrealism" in 1917 to describe
the works of Erik Satie. The term Orphism (1912) is also his. Apollinaire wrote
one of the earliest Surrealist literary works, the play The Breasts of Tiresias
(1917), which became the basis for the 1947 opera Les mamelles de Tirésias.
Apollinaire
was active as a journalist and art critic for Le Matin, L'Intransigeant,
L'Esprit nouveau, Mercure de France, and Paris Journal. In 1912 Apollinaire
cofounded Les Soirées de Paris, an artistic and literary magazine.
Two years
after being wounded in World War I, Apollinaire died in the Spanish flu
pandemic of 1918; he was 38.
From PillartoPost.org:
If you wish to go on a literary
adventure into the 1910s to discover additional layers of Guillaume
Apollinaire, a poet, brave soldier, artistic pornographer, friend to Picasso, influential
literary critic, an occasional journalistic scoundrel, accused art thief, who was
later released from prison because he did NOT steal the Mona Lisa from the
Louvre...Click here.
No comments:
Post a Comment