Laws and Law-Giving Ages ago there was a great

Laws and Law-Giving
Ages ago there was a great king, and he was wise. And he desired to lay laws unto his
subjects.
He called upon one thousand wise men of one thousand different tribes to his capital
and lay down the laws.
And all this came to pass.
But when the thousand laws written upon parchment were put before the king and he
read them, he wept bitterly in his soul, for he had not known that there were one
thousand forms of crime in his kingdom.
Then he called his scribe, and with a smile upon his mouth he himself dictated laws.
And his laws were but seven.
And the one thousand wise men left him in anger and returned to their tribes with the
laws they had laid down. And every tribe followed the laws of its wise men.
Therefore they have a thousand laws even to our own day.
It is a great country, but it has one thousand prisons, and the prisons are full of women
and men, breakers of a thousand laws.
It is indeed a great country, but the people thereof are decendants of one thousand lawgivers and of only one wise king.
Gibrán KHALIL GIBRÁN, The Wanderer: His Parables and His Sayings, Alfred A. Knopf, New York,
1932, pp. 54-55.
The League of the Old Men
At the Barracks a man was being tried for his life. He was an old man, a native from the
Whitefish River, which empties into the Yukon below Lake Le Barge. All Dawson was
wrought up over the affair, and likewise the Yukon-dwellers for a thousand miles up and
down. It has been the custom of the land-robbing and sea-robbing Anglo-Saxon to give
the law to conquered peoples, and ofttimes this law is harsh. But in the case of Imber the
law for once seemed inadequate and weak. In the mathematical nature of things, equity
did not reside in the punishment to be accorded him. The punishment was a foregone
conclusion, there could be no doubt of that; and though it was capital, Imber had but one
life, while the tale against him was one of scores.
In fact, the blood of so many was upon his hands that the killings attributed to him did
not permit of precise enumeration. Smoking a pipe by the trailside or lounging around the
stove, men made rough estimates of the numbers that had perished at his hand. They had
been whites, all of them, these poor murdered people, and they had been slain singly, in
pairs, and in parties. And so purposeless and wanton had been these killings, that they
had long been a mystery to the mounted police, even in the time of the captains, and later,
when the creeks realized, and a governor came from the Dominion to make the land pay
for its prosperity. But more mysterious still was the coming of Imber to Dawson to give
himself up. It was in the late spring, when the Yukon was growling and writhing under
its ice, that the old Indian climbed painfully up the bank from the river trail and stood
blinking on the main street. Men who had witnessed his advent, noted that he was weak
and tottery, and that he staggered over to a heap of cabin-logs and sat down. He sat there
a full day, staring straight before him at the unceasing tide of white men that flooded past.
Many a head jerked curiously to the side to meet his stare, and more than one remark was
dropped anent the old Siwash with so strange a look upon his face. No end of men
remembered afterward that they had been struck by his extraordinary figure, and forever
afterward prided themselves upon their swift discernment of the unusual.
But it remained for Dickensen, Little Dickensen, to be the hero of the occasion. Little
Dickensen had come into the land with great dreams and a pocketful of cash; but with the
cash the dreams vanished, and to earn his passage back to the States he had accepted a
clerical position with the brokerage firm of Holbrook and Mason. Across the street from
the office of Holbrook and Mason was the heap of cabin-logs upon which Imber sat.
Dickensen looked out of the window at him before he went to lunch; and when he came
back from lunch he looked out of the window, and the old Siwash was still there.
Dickensen continued to look out of the window, and he, too, forever afterward prided
himself upon his swiftness of discernment. He was a romantic little chap, and he likened
the immobile old heathen to the genius of the Siwash race, gazing calm-eyed upon the
hosts of the invading Saxon. The hours swept along, but Imber did not vary his posture,
did not by a hair's-breadth move a muscle; and Dickensen remembered the man who once
sat upright on a sled in the main street where men passed to and fro. They thought the
man was resting, but later, when they touched him, they found him stiff and cold, frozen
to death in the midst of the busy street. To undouble him, that he might fit into a coffin,
they had been forced to lug him to a fire and thaw him out a bit. Dickensen shivered at
the recollection.
Later on, Dickensen went out on the sidewalk to smoke a cigar and cool off; and a little
later Emily Travis happened along. Emily Travis was dainty and delicate and rare, and
whether in London or Klondike she gowned herself as befitted the daughter of a
millionnaire mining engineer. Little Dickensen deposited his cigar on an outside window
ledge where he could find it again, and lifted his hat.
They chatted for ten minutes or so, when Emily Travis, glancing past Dickensen's
shoulder, gave a startled little scream. Dickensen turned about to see, and was startled,
too. Imber had crossed the street and was standing there, a gaunt and hungry-looking
shadow, his gaze riveted upon the girl.
"What do you want?" Little Dickensen demanded, tremulously plucky.
Imber grunted and stalked up to Emily Travis. He looked her over, keenly and carefully,
every square inch of her. Especially did he appear interested in her silky brown hair, and
in the color of her cheek, faintly sprayed and soft, like the downy bloom of a butterfly
wing. He walked around her, surveying her with the calculating eye of a man who studies
the lines upon which a horse or a boat is builded. In the course of his circuit the pink shell
of her ear came between his eye and the westering sun, and he stopped to contemplate its
rosy transparency. Then he returned to her face and looked long and intently into her blue
eyes. He grunted and laid a hand on her arm midway between the shoulder and elbow.
With his other hand he lifted her forearm and doubled it back. Disgust and wonder showed
in his face, and he dropped her arm with a contemptuous grunt. Then he muttered a few
guttural syllables, turned his back upon her, and addressed himself to Dickensen.
Dickensen could not understand his speech, and Emily Travis laughed. Imber turned from
one to the other, frowning, but both shook their heads. He was about to go away, when
she called out:
"Oh, Jimmy! Come here!"
Jimmy came from the other side of the street. He was a big, hulking Indian clad in
approved white-man style, with an Eldorado king's sombrero on his head. He talked with
Imber, haltingly, with throaty spasms. Jimmy was a Sitkan, possessed of no more than a
passing knowledge of the interior dialects.
"Him Whitefish man," he said to Emily Travis. "Me savve um talk no very much. Him
want to look see chief white man."
"The Governor," suggested Dickensen.
Jimmy talked some more with the Whitefish man, and his face went grave and puzzled.
"I t'ink um want Cap'n Alexander," he explained. "Him say um kill white man, white
woman, white boy, plenty kill um white people. Him want to die."
"Insane, I guess," said Dickensen.
"What you call dat?" queried Jimmy.
Dickensen thrust a finger figuratively inside his head and imparted a rotary motion
thereto.
"Mebbe so, mebbe so," said Jimmy, returning to Imber, who still demanded the chief man
of the white men.
A mounted policeman (unmounted for Klondike service) joined the group and heard
Imber's wish repeated. He was a stalwart young fellow, broad-shouldered, deep-chested,
legs cleanly built and stretched wide apart, and tall though Imber was, he towered above
him by half a head. His eyes were cool, and gray, and steady, and he carried himself with
the peculiar confidence of power that is bred of blood and tradition. His splendid
masculinity was emphasized by his excessive boyishness, -- he was a mere lad, -- and his
smooth cheek promised a blush as willingly as the cheek of a maid.
Imber was drawn to him at once. The fire leaped into his eyes at sight of a sabre slash that
scarred his cheek. He ran a withered hand down the young fellow's leg and caressed the
swelling thew. He smote the broad chest with his knuckles, and pressed and prodded the
thick muscle-pads that covered the shoulders like a cuirass. The group had been added to
by curious passers-by -- husky miners, mountaineers, and frontiersmen, sons of the longlegged and broad-shouldered generations. Imber glanced from one to another, then he
spoke aloud in the Whitefish tongue.
"What did he say?" asked Dickensen.
"Him say um all the same one man, dat p'liceman," Jimmy interpreted.
Little Dickensen was little, and what of Miss Travis, he felt sorry for having asked the
question. The policeman was sorry for him and stepped into the breach. "I fancy there
may be something in his story. I'll take him up to the captain for examination. Tell him to
come along with me, Jimmy."
Jimmy indulged in more throaty spasms, and Imber grunted and looked satisfied.
"But ask him what he said, Jimmy, and what he meant when he took hold of my arm."
So spoke Emily Travis, and Jimmy put the question and received the answer.
"Him say you no afraid," said Jimmy.
Emily Travis looked pleased.
"Him say you no skookum, no strong, all the same very soft like little baby. Him break
you, in um two hands, to little pieces. Him t'ink much funny, very strange, how you can
be mother of men so big, so strong, like dat p'liceman."
Emily Travers kept her eyes up and unfaltering, but her cheeks were sprayed with scarlet.
Little Dickensen blushed and was quite embarrassed. The policeman's face blazed with
his boy's blood.
"Come along, you," he said gruffly, setting his shoulder to the crowd and forcing a way.
Thus it was that Imber found his way to the Barracks, where he made full and voluntary
confession, and from the precincts of which he never emerged.
Imber looked very tired. The fatigue of hopelessness and age was in his face. His
shoulders drooped depressingly, and his eyes were lack-lustre. His mop of hair should
have been white, but sun and weatherbeat had burned and bitten it so that it hung limp
and lifeless and colorless. He took no interest in what went on around him. The courtroom
was jammed with the men of the creeks and trails, and there was an ominous note in the
rumble and grumble of their low-pitched voices, which came to his ears like the growl of
the sea from deep caverns.
He sat close by a window, and his apathetic eyes rested now and again on the dreary scene
without. The sky was overcast, and a gray drizzle was falling. It was flood-time on the
Yukon. The ice was gone, and the river was up in the town. Back and forth on the main
street, in canoes and poling-boats, passed the people that never rested. Often he saw these
boats turn aside from the street and enter the flooded square that marked the Barracks'
parade-ground. Sometimes they disappeared beneath him, and he heard them jar against
the house-logs and their occupants scramble in through the window. After that came the
slush of water against men's legs as they waded across the lower room and mounted the
stairs. Then they appeared in the doorway, with doffed hats and dripping sea-boots, and
added themselves to the waiting crowd.
And while they centred their looks on him, and in grim anticipation enjoyed the penalty
he was to pay, Imber looked at them, and mused on their ways, and on their Law that
never slept, but went on unceasing, in good times and bad, in flood and famine, through
trouble and terror and death, and which would go on unceasing, it seemed to him, to the
end of time. A man rapped sharply on a table, and the conversation droned away into
silence. Imber looked at the man. He seemed one in authority, yet Imber divined the
square-browed man who sat by a desk farther back to be the one chief over them all and
over the man who had rapped. Another man by the same table uprose and began to read
aloud from many fine sheets of paper. At the top of each sheet he cleared his throat, at the
bottom moistened his fingers. Imber did not understand his speech, but the others did, and
he knew that it made them angry. Sometimes it made them very angry, and once a man
cursed him, in single syllables, stinging and tense, till a man at the table rapped him to
silence.
For an interminable period the man read. His monotonous, sing-song utterance lured
Imber to dreaming, and he was dreaming deeply when the man ceased. A voice spoke to
him in his own Whitefish tongue, and he roused up, without surprise, to look upon the
face of his sister's son, a young man who had wandered away years agone to make his
dwelling with the whites.
"Thou dost not remember me," he said by way of greeting.
"Nay," Imber answered. "Thou art Howkan who went away. Thy mother be dead."
"She was an old woman," said Howkan.
But Imber did not hear, and Howkan, with hand upon his shoulder, roused him again.
"I shall speak to thee what the man has spoken, which is the tale of the troubles thou hast
done and which thou hast told, O fool, to the Captain Alexander. And thou shalt
understand and say if it be true talk or talk not true. It is so commanded."
Howkan had fallen among the mission folk and been taught by them to read and write. In
his hands he held the many fine sheets from which the man had read aloud, and which
had been taken down by a clerk when Imber first made confession, through the mouth of
Jimmy, to Captain Alexander. Howkan began to read. Imber listened for a space, when a
wonderment rose up in his face and he broke in abruptly.
"That be my talk, Howkan. Yet from thy lips it comes when thy ears have not heard."
Howkan smirked with self-appreciation. His hair was parted in the middle. "Nay, from
the paper it comes, O Imber. Never have my ears heard. From the paper it comes, through
my eyes, into my head, and out of my mouth to thee. Thus it comes."
"Thus it comes? It be there in the paper?" Imber's voice sank in whisperful awe as he
crackled the sheets 'twixt thumb and finger and stared at the charactery scrawled thereon.
"It be a great medicine, Howkan, and thou art a worker of wonders."
"It be nothing, it be nothing," the young man responded carelessly and pridefully. He read
at hazard from the document: "In that year, before the break of the ice, came an old man,
and a boy who was lame of one foot. These also did I kill, and the old man made much
noise -- "
"It be true," Imber interrupted breathlessly. "He made much noise and would not die for
a long time. But how dost thou know, Howkan? The chief man of the white men told thee,
mayhap? No one beheld me, and him alone have I told." Howkan shook his head with
impatience. "Have I not told thee it be there in the paper, O fool?"
Imber stared hard at the ink-scrawled surface. "As the hunter looks upon the snow and
says, Here but yesterday there passed a rabbit; and here by the willow scrub it stood and
listened, and heard, and was afraid; and here it turned upon its trail; and here it went with
great swiftness, leaping wide; and here, with greater swiftness and wider leapings, came
a lynx; and here, where the claws cut deep into the snow, the lynx made a very great leap;
and here it struck, with the rabbit under and rolling belly up; and here leads off the trail
of the lynx alone, and there is no more rabbit, -- as the hunter looks upon the markings of
the snow and says thus and so and here, dost thou, too, look upon the paper and say thus
and so and here be the things old Imber hath done?"
"Even so," said Howkan. "And now do thou listen, and keep thy woman's tongue between
thy teeth till thou art called upon for speech."
Thereafter, and for a long time, Howkan read to him the confession, and Imber remained
musing and silent. At the end, he said:
"It be my talk, and true talk, but I am grown old, Howkan, and forgotten things come back
to me which were well for the head man there to know. First, there was the man who
came over the Ice Mountains, with cunning traps made of iron, who sought the beaver of
the Whitefish. Him I slew. And there were three men seeking gold on the Whitefish long
ago. Them also I slew, and left them to the wolverines. And at the Five Fingers there was
a man with a raft and much meat."
At the moments when Imber paused to remember, Howkan translated and a clerk reduced
to writing. The courtroom listened stolidly to each unadorned little tragedy, till Imber told
of a red-haired man whose eyes were crossed and whom he had killed with a remarkably
long shot.
"Hell," said a man in the forefront of the onlookers. He said it soulfully and sorrowfully.
He was red-haired. "Hell," he repeated. "That was my brother Bill." And at regular
intervals throughout the session, his solemn "Hell" was heard in the courtroom; nor did
his comrades check him, nor did the man at the table rap him to order.
Imber's head drooped once more, and his eyes went dull, as though a film rose up and
covered them from the world. And he dreamed as only age can dream upon the colossal
futility of youth.
Later, Howkan roused him again, saying: "Stand up, O Imber. It be commanded that thou
tellest why you did these troubles, and slew these people, and at the end journeyed here
seeking the Law."
Imber rose feebly to his feet and swayed back and forth. He began to speak in a low and
faintly rumbling voice, but Howkan interrupted him.
"This old man, he is damn crazy," he said in English to the square-browed man. "His talk
is foolish and like that of a child."
"We will hear his talk which is like that of a child," said the square-browed man. "And
we will hear it, word for word, as he speaks it. Do you understand?"
Howkan understood, and Imber's eyes flashed, for he had witnessed the play between his
sister's son and the man in authority. And then began the story, the epic of a bronze patriot
which might well itself be wrought into bronze for the generations unborn. The crowd
fell strangely silent, and the square-browed judge leaned head on hand and pondered his
soul and the soul of his race. Only was heard the deep tones of Imber, rhythmically
alternating with the shrill voice of the interpreter, and now and again, like the bell of the
Lord, the wondering and meditative "Hell" of the red-haired man.
"I am Imber of the Whitefish people." So ran the interpretation of Howkan, whose inherent
barbarism gripped hold of him, and who lost his mission culture and veneered civilization
as he caught the savage ring and rhythm of old Imber's tale. "My father was Otsbaok, a
strong man. The land was warm with sunshine and gladness when I was a boy. The people
did not hunger after strange things, nor hearken to new voices, and the ways of their
fathers were their ways. The women found favor in the eyes of the young men, and the
young men looked upon them with content. Babes hung at the breasts of the women, and
they were heavy-hipped with increase of the tribe. Men were men in those days. In peace
and plenty, and in war and famine, they were men.
"At that time there was more fish in the water than now, and more meat in the forest. Our
dogs were wolves, warm with thick hides and hard to the frost and storm. And as with
our dogs so with us, for we were likewise hard to the frost and storm. And when the Pellys
came into our land we slew them and were slain. For we were men, we Whitefish, and our
fathers and our fathers' fathers had fought against the Pellys and determined the bounds
of the land.
"As I say, with our dogs, so with us. And one day came the first white man. He dragged
himself, so, on hand and knee, in the snow. And his skin was stretched tight, and his bones
were sharp beneath. Never was such a man, we thought, and we wondered of what strange
tribe he was, and of its land. And he was weak, most weak, like a little child, so that we
gave him a place by the fire, and warm furs to lie upon, and we gave him food as little
children are given food.
"And with him was a dog, large as three of our dogs, and very weak. The hair of this dog
was short, and not warm, and the tail was frozen so that the end fell off. And this strange
dog we fed, and bedded by the fire, and fought from it our dogs, which else would have
killed him. And what of the moose meat and the sun-dried salmon, the man and dog took
strength to themselves; and what of the strength they became big and unafraid. And the
man spoke loud words and laughed at the old men and young men, and looked boldly
upon the maidens. And the dog fought with our dogs, and for all of his short hair and
softness slew three of them in one day.
"When we asked the man concerning his people, he said,`I have many brothers,' and
laughed in a way that was not good. And when he was in his full strength he went away,
and with him went Noda, daughter to the chief. First, after that, was one of our bitches
brought to pup. And never was there such a breed of dogs, -- big-headed, thick-jawed,
and short-haired, and helpless. Well do I remember my father, Otsbaok, a strong man.
His face was black with anger at such helplessness, and he took a stone, so, and so, and
there was no more helplessness. And two summers after that came Noda back to us with
a man-child in the hollow of her arm.
"And that was the beginning. Came a second white man, with short-haired dogs, which
he left behind him when he went. And with him went six of our strongest dogs, for which,
in trade, he had given Koo-So-Tee, my mother's brother, a wonderful pistol that fired with
great swiftness six times. And Koo-So-Tee was very big, what of the pistol, and laughed
at our bows and arrows. `Woman's things,' he called them, and went forth against the
bald-face grizzly, with the pistol in his hand. Now it be known that it is not good to hunt
the bald-face with a pistol, but how were we to know? and how was Koo-So-Tee to know?
So he went against the bald-face, very brave, and fired the pistol with great swiftness six
times; and the bald-face but grunted and broke in his breast like it were an egg, and like
honey from a bee's nest dripped the brains of Koo-So-Tee upon the ground. He was a
good hunter, and there was no one to bring meat to his squaw and children. And we were
bitter, and we said, `That which for the white men is well, is for us not well.' And this be
true. There be many white men and fat, but their ways have made us few and lean.
"Came the third white man, with great wealth of all manner of wonderful foods and
things. And twenty of our strongest dogs he took from us in trade. Also, what of presents
and great promises, ten of our young hunters did he take with him on a journey which
fared no man knew where. It is said they died in the snow of the Ice Mountains where
man has never been, or in the Hills of Silence which are beyond the edge of the earth. Be
that as it may, dogs and young hunters were seen never again by the Whitefish people.
"And more white men came with the years, and ever, with pay and presents, they led the
young men away with them. And sometimes the young men came back with strange tales
of dangers and toils in the lands beyond the Pellys, and sometimes they did not come
back. And we said: `If they be unafraid of life, these white men, it is because they have
many lives; but we be few by the Whitefish, and the young men shall go away no more.'
But the young men did go away; and the young women went also; and we were very
wroth.
"It be true, we ate flour, and salt pork, and drank tea which was a great delight; only,
when we could not get tea, it was very bad and we became short of speech and quick of
anger. So we grew to hunger for the things the white men brought in trade. Trade! trade!
all the time was it trade! One winter we sold our meat for clocks that would not go, and
watches with broken guts, and files worn smooth, and pistols without cartridges and
worthless. And then came famine, and we were without meat, and two score died ere the
break of spring.
"`Now are we grown weak,' we said; `and the Pellys will fall upon us, and our bounds be
overthrown.' But as it fared with us, so had it fared with the Pellys, and they were too
weak to come against us.
"My father, Otsbaok, a strong man, was now old and very wise. And he spoke to the chief,
saying: `Behold, our dogs be worthless. No longer are they thick-furred and strong, and
they die in the frost and harness. Let us go into the village and kill them, saving only the
wolf ones, and these let us tie out in the night that they may mate with the wild wolves of
the forest. Thus shall we have dogs warm and strong again.'
"And his word was harkened to, and we Whitefish became known for our dogs, which
were the best in the land. But known we were not for ourselves. The best of our young
men and women had gone away with the white men to wander on trail and river to far
places. And the young women came back old and broken, as Noda had come, or they
came not at all. And the young men came back to sit by our fires for a time, full of ill
speech and rough ways, drinking evil drinks and gambling through long nights and days,
with a great unrest always in their hearts, till the call of the white men came to them and
they went away again to the unknown places. And they were without honor and respect,
jeering the old-time customs and laughing in the faces of chief and shamans.
"As I say, we were become a weak breed, we Whitefish. We sold our warm skins and furs
for tobacco and whiskey and thin cotton things that left us shivering in the cold. And the
coughing sickness came upon us, and men and women coughed and sweated through the
long nights, and the hunters on trail spat blood upon the snow. And now one, and now
another, bled swiftly from the mouth and died. And the women bore few children, and
those they bore were weak and given to sickness. And other sicknesses came to us from
the white men, the like of which we had never known and could not understand.
Smallpox, likewise measles, have I heard these sicknesses named, and we died of them
as die the salmon in the still eddies when in the fall their eggs are spawned and there is
no longer need for them to live.
"And yet, and here be the strangeness of it, the white men come as the breath of death; all
their ways lead to death, their nostrils are filled with it; and yet they do not die. Theirs the
whiskey, and tobacco, and short-haired dogs; theirs the many sicknesses, the smallpox
and measles, the coughing and mouth-bleeding; theirs the white skin, and softness to the
frost and storm; and theirs the pistols that shoot six times very swift and are worthless.
And yet they grow fat on their many ills, and prosper, and lay a heavy hand over all the
world and tread mightily upon its peoples. And their women, too, are soft as little babes,
most breakable and never broken, the mothers of men. And out of all this softness, and
sickness, and weakness, come strength, and power, and authority. They be gods, or devils,
as the case may be. I do not know. What do I know, I, old Imber of the Whitefish? Only
do I know that they are past understanding, these white men, far-wanderers and fighters
over the earth that they be.
"As I say, the meat in the forest became less and less. It be true, the white man's gun is
most excellent and kills a long way off; but of what worth the gun, when there is no meat
to kill? When I was a boy on the Whitefish there was moose on every hill, and each year
came the caribou uncountable. But now the hunter may take the trail ten days and not one
moose gladden his eyes, while the caribou uncountable come no more at all. Small worth
the gun, I say, killing a long way off, when there be nothing to kill.
"And I, Imber, pondered upon these things, watching the while the Whitefish, and the
Pellys, and all the tribes of the land, perishing as perished the meat of the forest. Long I
pondered. I talked with the shamans and the old men who were wise. I went apart that the
sounds of the village might not disturb me, and I ate no meat so that my belly should not
press upon me and make me slow of eye and ear. I sat long and sleepless in the forest,
wide-eyed for the sign, my ears patient and keen for the word that was to come. And I
wandered alone in the blackness of night to the river bank, where was wind-moaning and
sobbing of water, and where I sought wisdom from the ghosts of old shamans in the trees
and dead and gone.
"And in the end, as in a vision came to me the short-haired and detestable dogs, and the
way seemed plain. By the wisdom of Otsbaok, my father and a strong man, had the blood
of our own wolf-dogs been kept clean, wherefore had they remained warm of hide and
strong in the harness. So I returned to my village and made oration to the men. `This be a
tribe, these white men,' I said. `A very large tribe, and doubtless there is no longer meat
in their land, and they are come among us to make a new land for themselves. But they
weaken us, and we die. They are a very hungry folk. Already has our meat gone from us,
and it were well, if we would live, that we deal by them as we have dealt by their dogs.'
"And further oration I made, counselling fight. And the men of the Whitefish listened, and
some said one thing, and some another, and some spoke of other and worthless things,
and no man made brave talk of deeds and war. But while the young men were weak as
water and afraid, watched that the old men sat silent, and that in their eyes fires came and
went. And later, when forest and made more talk. And now we were agreed, and we
remembered the good young days, and the free land, and thetimes of plenty, and the
gladness and sunshine; and we called ourselves brothers, and swore great secrecy, and a
mighty oath to cleanse the land of the evil breed that had come upon it. It be plain we
were fools, but how were we to know, we old men of the Whitefish?
"And to hearten the others, I did the first deed. I kept guard upon the Yukon till the first
canoe came down. In it were two white men, and when I stood upright upon the bank and
raised my hand they changed their course and drove in to me. And as the man in the bow
lifted his head, so, that he might know wherefore I wanted him, my arrow sang through
the air straight to his throat, and he knew. The second man, who held paddle in the stern,
had his rifle half to his shoulder when the first of my three spear-casts smote him.
"`These be the first,' I said, when the old men had gathered to me. `Later we will bind
together all the old men of all the tribes, and after that the young men who remain strong,
and the work will become easy.'
"And then the two dead white men we cast into the river. And of the canoe, which was a
very good canoe, we made a fire, and a fire, also, of the things within the canoe. But first
we looked at the things, and they were pouches of leather which we cut open with our
knives. And inside these pouches were many papers, like that from which thou has read,
O Howkan, with markings on them which we marvelled at and could not understand.
Now, I am become wise, and I know them for the speech of men as thou hast told me."
A whisper and buzz went around the courtroom when Howkan finished interpreting the
affair of the canoe, and one man's voice spoke up: "That was the lost '91 mail, Peter James
and Delaney bringing it in and last spoken at Le Barge by Matthews going out." The clerk
scratched steadily away, and another paragraph was added to the history of the North.
"There be little more," Imber went on slowly. "It be there on the paper, the things we did.
We were old men, and we did not understand. Even I, Imber, do not now understand.
Secretly we slew, and continued to slay, for with our years we were crafty and we had
learned the swiftness of going without haste. When white men came among us with black
looks and rough words, and took away six of the young men with irons binding them
helpless, we knew we must slay wider and farther. And one by one we old men departed
up river and down to the unknown lands. It was a brave thing. Old we were, and unafraid,
but the fear of far places is a terrible fear to men who are old.
"So we slew, without haste and craftily. On the Chilcoot and in the Delta we slew, from
the passes to the sea, wherever the white men camped or broke their trails. It be true, they
died, but it was without worth. Ever did they come over the mountains, ever did they
grow and grow, while we, being old, became less and less. I remember, by the Caribou
Crossing, the camp of a white man. He was a very little white man, and three of the old
men came upon him in his sleep. And the next day I came upon the four of them. The
white man alone still breathed, and there was breath in him to curse me once and well
before he died.
"And so it went, now one old man, and now another. Sometimes the word reached us long
after of how they died, and sometimes it did not reach us. And the old men of the other
tribes were weak and afraid, and would not join with us. As I say, one by one, till I alone
was left. I am Imber, of the Whitefish people. My father was Otsbaok, a strong man. There
are no Whitefish now. Of the old men I am the last. The young men and young women
are gone away, some to live with the Pellys, some with the Salmons, and more with the
white men. I am very old, and very tired, and it being vain fighting the Law, as thou
sayest, Howkan, I am come seeking the Law."
"O Imber, thou art indeed a fool," said Howkan. But Imber was dreaming. The squarebrowed judge likewise dreamed, and all his race rose up before him in a mighty
phantasmagoria -- his steel-shod, mail-clad race, the lawgiver and world-maker among
the families of men. He saw it dawn red-flickering across the dark forests and sullen seas;
he saw it blaze, bloody and red, to full and triumphant noon; and down the shaded slope
he saw the blood-red sands dropping into night. And through it all he observed the Law,
pitiless and potent, ever unswerving and ever ordaining, greater than the motes of men
who fulfilled it or were crushed by it, even as it was greater than he, his heart speaking
for softness.
Jack LONDON, “The League of the Old Men”, en Brandur Magazine, I (Oct. 4, 1902), pp. 7-11,
incluida en Children of the Frost, Macmillan, New York, 1902, pp. 231-261.
Vor dem Gesetz
Vor dem gesetz steht ein Türhüter. Zu diesem Türhüter kommt ein Mann vom Lande und
bittet um Eintritt in das Gesetz. Aber der Türhüter sagt, daß er ihm jetzt den Eintritt nicht
gewähren könne. Der Mann überlegt und fragt dann, ob er also später werde eintreten
dürfen. »Es ist möglich«, sagt der Türhüter, »jetzt aber nicht.« Da das Tor zum Gesetz
offensteht wie immer und der Türhüter beiseite tritt, bückt sich der Mann, um durch das
Tor in das Innere zu sehn. Als der Türhüter das merkt, lacht er und sagt: »Wenn es dich
so lockt, versuche es doch, trotz meines Verbotes hineinzugehn. Merke aber: Ich bin
mächtig. Und ich bin nur der unterste Türhüter. Von Saal zu Saal stehn aber Türhüter,
einer mächtiger als der andere. Schon den Anblick des dritten kann nicht einmal ich mehr
ertragen.« Solche Schwierigkeiten hat der Mann vom Lande nicht erwartet; das Gesetz
soll doch jedem und immer zugänglich sein, denkt er, aber als er jetzt den Türhüter in
seinem Pelzmantel genauer ansieht, seine große Spitznase, den langen, dünnen,
schwarzen tatarischen Bart, entschließt er sich, doch lieber zu warten, bis er die Erlaubnis
zum Eintritt bekommt. Der Türhüter gibt ihm einen Schemel und läßt ihn seitwärts von
der Tür sich niedersetzen. Dort sitzt er Tage und Jahre. Er macht viele Versuche,
eingelassen zu werden, und ermüdet den Türhüter durch seine Bitten. Der Türhüter stellt
öfters kleine Verhöre mit ihm an, fragt ihn über seine Heimat aus und nach vielem andern,
es sind aber teilnahmslose Fragen, wie sie große Herren stellen, und zum Schlusse sagt
er ihm immer wieder, daß er ihn noch nicht einlassen könne. Der Mann, der sich für seine
Reise mit vielem ausgerüstet hat, verwendet alles, und sei es noch so wertvoll, um den
Türhüter zu bestechen. Dieser nimmt zwar alles an, aber sagt dabei: »Ich nehme es nur
an, damit du nicht glaubst, etwas versäumt zu haben.« Während der vielen Jahre
beobachtet der Mann den Türhüter fast ununterbrochen. Er vergißt die andern Türhüter,
und dieser erste scheint ihm das einzige Hindernis für den Eintritt in das Gesetz. Er
verflucht den unglücklichen Zufall, in den ersten Jahren rücksichtslos und laut, später, als
er alt wird, brummt er nur noch vor sich hin. Er wird kindisch, und, da er in dem
jahrelangen Studium des Türhüters auch die Flöhe in seinem Pelzkragen erkannt hat,
bittet er auch die Flöhe, ihm zu helfen und den Türhüter umzustimmen. Schließlich wird
sein Augenlicht schwach, und er weiß nicht, ob es um ihn wirklich dunkler wird, oder ob
ihn nur seine Augen täuschen. Wohl aber erkennt er jetzt im Dunkel einen Glanz, der
unverlöschlich aus der Türe des Gesetzes bricht. Nun lebt er nicht mehr lange. Vor seinem
Tode sammeln sich in seinem Kopfe alle Erfahrungen der ganzen Zeit zu einer Frage, die
er bisher an den Türhüter noch nicht gestellt hat. Er winkt ihm zu, da er seinen
erstarrenden Körper nicht mehr aufrichten kann. Der Türhüter muß sich tief zu ihm
hinunterneigen, denn der Größenunterschied hat sich sehr zuungunsten des Mannes
verändert. »Was willst du denn jetzt noch wissen?« fragt der Türhüter, »du bist
unersättlich. « »Alle streben doch nach dem Gesetz «, sagt der Mann, »wieso kommt es,
daß in den vielen Jahren niemand außer mir Einlaß verlangt hat?« Der Türhüter erkennt,
daß der Mann schon an seinem Ende ist, und, um sein vergehendes Gehör noch zu
erreichen, brüllt er ihn an: »Hier konnte niemand sonst Einlaß erhalten, denn dieser
Eingang war nur für dich bestimmt. Ich gehe jetzt und schließe ihn.«
Franz KAFKA, Der Prozess, Berlin, Schmiede, 1925.
Fragment
Es kamen zwei Soldaten und ergriffen mich. Ich wehrte miich, aber sie hielten fest. Sie
führten mich vor ihren Herrn, einen Offizier. Wie bunt war seine Uniform! Ich sagte:
"Was wollt Ihr denn von mir, ich bin ein Civilist". Der Offizier lächelte und sagte: "Du
bist ein Civilist, doch hindert uns das nicht Dich zu fassen. Das Militär hat Gewalt über
alles".
Franz KAFKA, Hochzeitsvorbereitungen auf dem Lande und andere Prosa aus dem Nachlaß (1953),
Max BROD (ed.), Frankfut am Main, Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, , 1960, p. 172. Asimismo Franz
KAFKA, Nachgelassene Schriften und Fragmente in der Fassung der Handschriften, hrsg. von
Malcolm Pasley (v. I, 1993) und Jost Schillemeit (v. II, 1992), Frankfurt a. M., Fischer, 1992-1993,
II, 21.
Erster Teil
Eine Art Einleitung
1
Woraus bemerkenswerter Weise nichts hervorgeht
Diese beiden hielten nun plötzlich ihren Schritt an, weil sie vor sich einen Auflauf
bemerkten. Schon einen Augenblick vorher war etwas aus der Reihe gesprungen, eine
quer schlagende Bewegung; etwas hatte sich gedreht, war seitwärts gerutscht, ein
schwerer, jäh gebremster Lastwagen war es, wie sich jetzt zeigte, wo er, mit einem Rad
auf der Bordschwelle, gestrandet dastand. Wie die Bienen um das Flugloch hatten sich
im Nu Menschen um einen kleinen Fleck angesetzt, den sie in ihrer Mitte freiließen. Von
seinem Wagen herabgekommen, stand der Lenker darin, grau wie Packpapier, und
erklärte mit groben Gebärden den Unglücksfall. Die Blicke der Hinzukommenden
richteten sich auf ihn und sanken dann vorsichtig in die Tiefe des Lochs, wo man einen
Mann, der wie tot dalag, an die Schwelle des Gehsteigs gebettet hatte. Er war durch seine
eigene Unachtsamkeit zu Schaden gekommen, wie allgemein zugegeben wurde.
Abwechselnd knieten Leute bei ihm nieder, um etwas mit ihm anzufangen; man öffnete
seinen Rock und schloß ihn wieder, man versuchte ihn aufzurichten oder im Gegenteil,
ihn wieder hinzulegen; eigentlich wollte niemand etwas anderes damit, als die Zeit
ausfüllen, bis mit der Rettungsgesellschaft sachkundige und befugte Hilfe käme.
Auch die Dame und ihr Begleiter waren herangetreten und hatten, über Köpfe und
gebeugte Rücken hinweg, den Daliegenden betrachtet. Dann traten sie zurück und
zögerten. Die Dame fühlte etwas Unangenehmes in der Herz-Magengrube, das sie
berechtigt war für Mitleid zu halten; es war ein unentschlossenes, lähmendes Gefühl. Der
Herr sagte nach einigem Schweigen zu ihr: »Diese schweren Kraftwagen, wie sie hier
verwendet werden, haben einen zu langen Bremsweg.« Die Dame fühlte sich dadurch
erleichtert und dankte mit einem aufmerksamen Blick. Sie hatte dieses Wort wohl schon
manchmal gehört, aber sie wußte nicht, was ein Bremsweg sei, und wollte es auch nicht
wissen; es genügte ihr, daß damit dieser gräßliche Vorfall in irgend eine Ordnung zu
bringen war und zu einem technischen Problem wurde, das sie nicht mehr unmittelbar
anging. Man hörte jetzt auch schon die Pfeife eines Rettungswagens schrillen, und die
Schnelligkeit seines Eintreffens erfüllte alle Wartenden mit Genugtuung.
Bewundernswert sind diese sozialen Einrichtungen. Man hob den Verunglückten auf eine
Tragbahre und schob ihn mit dieser in den Wagen. Männer in einer Art Uniform waren
um ihn bemüht, und das Innere des Fuhrwerks, das der Blick erhaschte, sah so sauber und
regelmäßig wie ein Krankensaal aus. Man ging fast mit dem berechtigten Eindruck davon,
daß sich ein gesetzliches und ordnungsmäßiges Ereignis vollzogen habe. »Nach den
amerikanischen Statistiken«, so bemerkte der Herr, »werden dort jährlich durch Autos
190000 Personen getötet und 450000 verletzt.«
»Meinen Sie, daß er tot ist?« fragte seine Begleiterin und hatte noch immer das
unberechtigte Gefühl, etwas Besonderes erlebt zu haben.
»Ich hoffe, er lebt« erwiderte der Herr. »Als man ihn in den Wagen hob, sah es ganz so
aus.«
Robert MUSIL, Der mann ohne eigenschaften, Imprimerie Centrale, Lausanne, 1930-1943, 3 t.
Balaam and the Ass: The Master-Servant. Relationship in Literature
The relation between Master and Servant is not given by nature or Fate, but comes into
being through an act of conscious volition. Secondly, it is not erotic; an erotic relationship,
e.g. between man and wife or parent and child, comes into being in order to satisfy needs
which are, in part, given by nature; the needs which are satisfied by a master-servant
relationship are purely social and historical. By this definition, a wet nurse is not a
servant, a cook may be. Thirdly, it is contractual. A contractual relationship comes
into being through the free decision of both parties, a double commitment. The liberty of
decision need not be, and indeed very rarely is, equal on both sides, but the weaker party
must possess some degree of sovereignty. Thus a slave is not a servant because he has no
sovereignty whatsoever; he cannot even say, "I would rather starve than work for you".
A contractual relationships not only involves double sovereignty, it is also asymmetric;
what the master contributes, e.g. shelter, food, and wages, and what the servant
contributes, e.g. looking after the master's clothes and house, are qualitatively different
and there is no objective standard by which one can decide whether the one is or is not
equivalent to the other. A contract, therefore, differs from a law. In law all sovereignty
lies with the law or with those who impose it, and the individual has no sovereignty. Even
in a democracy where sovereignty is said to reside in the people, it is as a member of the
people that he has a share in that, not as an individual. Further, the relationship of all
individuals to a law is symmetric; it commands or prohibits the thing to all who come
under it. Of any law one can ask the aesthetic question, "Is it enforceable?" and the ethical
question, "Is it just?" An individual has the aesthetic right to break the law if he is
powerful enough to do with impunity, and it may be his ethical duty to break it if his
conscience tells him that the law is unjust. Of a contract, on the other hand, one can only
ask the historical question, "Did both parties pledge their word to it?" Its justice or its
enforceability are secondary to the historical fact of mutual personal commitment. A
contract can only be broken or changed by the mutual consent of both parties. It will be
my ethical duty to insist on changing a contract when my conscience tells me it is unfair
only if I am in the advantageous position; if I am in the weaker position I have a right to
propose a change but no right to insist on one.
When the false oracle has informed Don Quixote that Dulcinea can only be disenchanted
if Sancho Panza will receive several thousand lashes, the latter agrees to receive them on
condition that he inflict them himself and in his own good time. One night Don Quixote
becomes so impatient for the release of his love that he attempts to become the whipper,
at which point Sancho Panza knocks his master down.
Don Quixote. So you would rebel against your lord and master, would you, and dare to
raise your hand against the one who feeds you.
Sancho. I neither make nor unmake a king, but am simply standing up for myself, for I
am my own lord.
Similarly, when Mr Pickwick, on entering the Debtors' Prison, attempts to dismiss Sam
Weller because it would be unjust to the latter to expect him to accompany his master,
Sam Weller refuses to accept dismissal and arranges to get sent to jail himself.
Lastly, the Master-Servant relationship is between real persons. Thus we do not call the
employees of a factory or a store servants because the factory and the store are corporate,
i.e., fictitious, persons.
W. H. AUDEN, «Balaam and the Ass: The Master-Servant. Relationship in Literature», en Thought,
XXIX (Summer, 1954), pp. 237-270, en esp. pp. 237-239, así como en Encounter, 3, 1 (July, 1954),
pp. 35-53, y posteriormente incluido en su obra The Dyer's Hand and Others Essays, New York,
Random House, 1962, pp. 107-145.
Il racconto dell'isola
New Parthenon, 6 novembre
Sabato sera mi son visto apparire improvvisamente un uomo che non vedevo da più da
vent'anni. Con Pat Cairness ho conosciuto fame e paura a Frisco, ai primi tempi del mio
arrivo. Pat, un irlandese pieno di spiritu e di ricorse, mi ha salvato più d'una volta dalla
disperazione.
Dacché son venuto verso le città dell'Est non avevo più saputo di lui.
Quando è arrivato, senza dire il nome, non l'ho riconosciuto. Ha cambiato colore e, mi
sembra, anche corporatura. Era un giunco di pelle bianca e m'è diventato una quercia di
color bruno. Ha fatto, dice, il viaggiatore: i primi anni per bisogno eppoi per curiosità.
Non c'è paese che non abbia visto, mare che non abbia traversato, strada che non abbia
percorso. Parla otto lingue e una ventina di dialetti. fatto l'arruolatore di coolies, il socio
di pirati, il negoziante di serpenti, il capo-fattucchiero, il falso monaco buddista, il pilota
dei deserti - insomma tutti i mestieri della gente che non ha altra vocazione che il
mutamento. Se scrivesse i suoi ricordi farebbe un libro assai più ricco di quelli di Melville
e di Jack London.
Mi diceva, però, che il tempo dell'avventure è finito, che non c'è parte della terra dove
non si trovino traccie di viaggiatori e di civiltà, ch'è quasi impossibile trovare un pezzo di
giungla o di steppa dove non sia penetrato un bianco. In tutti i suoi viaggi non ha scoperto
che un'isola, ignota fino allora ai marinai ed ai geografi. Un'isola del Pacifico, poco più
grande d'una dell'isole Sandwich, al sud della Nuova Zelanda. È abitata da poche
centinaia di melanesiani papua, capitati là colle loro barche da molti secoli.
— La singolarità di quest'isola, mi raccontava Pat Cairness, non è nell suo aspetto, ch'è
simile dell'altre isole del Pacifico, e neppure nel suoi abitanti, che hanno conservato le
costumanze e le tradizioni della loro razza. Sta in questo: i capi hanno riconosciuto, da
molto tempo, che l'isola non può nutrire più di un numero fisso di abitanti: e precisamente
settecentosettanta. Gran parte del suolo, montuoso, è sterile e il mare non è troppo
pescoso. Dal di fuori non può arrivar nulla, perché nessuno, dopo di loro, è sbarcato
sull'isola e i nipoti dei primi immigranti hanno dimenticato l'arte di costruire grosse
imbarcazioni. L'assemblea dei capi, perciò, ha promulgato da tempo immemorabile una
stranissima legge -cioè che ad ogni nuova nascita deve seguire una morte, in modo che il
numero degli abitanti non superi mai settecentosettanta. È una legge, credo, unica al
mondo e che vien fatta osservare severamente dal consiglio degli anziani, composto di
stregoni e di guerrieri. Come in tutti i paesi del mondo le nascite superano le morti
naturali, sicché ogni anno dieci o venti di questi infelice segregati dal mondo devono esser
uccisi dalla tribù. La paura della fame ha fatto inventare agli oligarchi papua un sistema
di censimento molto grossolano ma preciso. Una volta l'anno, in primavera, l'assemblea
si raduna e si legge la lista dei nati e dei morti. Se ci sono, ad esempio, venti nati e otto
morti, bisogna che dodici viventi siano sacrificati alla salute della comunità. Un certo
tempo, mi hanno detto, toccava ai più vecchi morire, ma siccome il consiglio dei capi è
formato in gran parte da vecchi, questi fecero in modo, ricorrendo a non so quali astuzie,
che la decimazione fosse affidata alla sorte. Ogni abitante possiede una tavoletta di legno
dov'è inscritto per mezzo d'un disegno o d'un geroglifico, il suo nome. Venuto giorno
terribile le tessere dei vivi vengono raccolte nello scafo d'una barca interrata dinanzi alla
capanna del consiglio e rammestate accuratamente con un remo dallo stregone più
vecchio. Poi si fa uscire un cane, addestrato a questo fine, il quale scende nella barca,
addenta una delle tavolette, la consegna al fattucchiero e ripete l'operazione quante volte
è necessario. Ai designati son concessi tre giorni per congedarsi dalla famiglia e per
sopprimersi nel modo che a loro più aggrada. Se dopo tre giorni c'è qualcuno che non ha
avuto il coraggio di suicidarsi, vien catturato da quattro uomini scelti tra ipiù forti, chiuso
in un sacco di pelle insieme ad alcune pietre, e buttato in mare.
« Detta cosi la cosa appare semplice e, in senso, anche logica. Ma bisogna vivere, come
feci io per un po' di tempo, fra quella gente per avere un'idea della spaventosità di quella
legge e di tutte le conseguenze, tragiche e grottesche, che porta con sé. Prima di tutto ogni
donna che si accorge d'esser gravida si chiude nella sua capanna e non osa più farsi vedere
da nessuno. È una nemica: tutti l'odierebbero. Ogni fanciullo che sta per nascere è una
minaccia per i già nati, un pericolo pubblico. E neppure la madre e il padre son tranquilli,
ché la sorte può designare un di loro - come talvolta è accaduto - a sparire per dar posto
al figliolo. Ne deriva che le donne sterili sono le più onorate di tutti e che gli uomini non
si decidono al matrimonio che quando son quasi fuor di sé.
«Inoltre è assai diffuso nell'isola l'omicidio perché gli assassini si propongono, cosi, di
pareggiare il numero delle nascite e di sottrarsi, almeno per un certo tempo, alle terribili
sorprese della sorte. Nei miei viaggi non ho visto nulla di più lugubre dell'assemblea nella
quale si deve procedere alla designazione dei sacrificati allo spettro della carestia. Ho
assistito a una di queste assemblee e, per quanto sia tutt'altro che un sentimentale, ne ho
riportato una sensazione penosa. Qualche giorno prima c'è chi tenta di nascondersi nelle
grotte dell'isola colla speranza. di sottrarsi al pericolo. Ma l'isola è piccola e la
sorveglianza è nell'interesse di tutti: le assenze aumentano il rischio dei presenti. Alcuni
son trascinati per forza alla riunione e li vidi dibattersi furiosamente per non consegnare
la tavoletta col loro nome. Quella volta gli eccedenti eran nove soli e mi accorsi che
nessuno di loro accettava con rassegnazione la sentenza della sorte. Una donna giovane
si aggrappava disperatamente ai ginocchi dei capi invocando pietà. Aveva, pare, un
bambino, ancora piccolo e chiedeva piangendo che le permettessero di vivere ancora un
anno, per non lasciarlo solo. Un uomo già anziano dichiarò ch'era gravemente malato e
che avrebbe liberato presto la tribù dal peso della sua esistenza, ma chiedeva la grazia che
lo lasciassero morire di morte naturale. Un giovane si raccomandava a gran voce che lo
dispensassero dalla morte immediata non per sé, diceva, ma perché era l'unico sostegno
della madre vecchia e di tre fratelli ancora inadatti al lavoro. Due genitori urlavano
selvaggiamente perché tra gli estratti a sorte c'era l'ultimo e il più bello dei loro figlioli.
Una giovanetta implorava che aspettassero almeno i il suo matrimonio; doveva sposarsi
tra pochi giorni e non voleva morire prima di aver mantenuta la promessa fatta
solennemente al futuro sposo. Un vecchione del consiglio cercava di salvarsi
proclamando che lui solo conosceva certi segreti necessari alla vita della tribù e che se
l'avessero ucciso sarebbe morto senza rivelarli a nessuno, per vendetta.
«Per tre giorni non si udirono per tutta l'isola che gemiti e lamenti. Ma la legge è
inesorabile e non ammette proroghe e dispense. In un solo caso uno dei designati può
essere salvo: cioè se un altro accetta di morire nel posto suo. Ma, a quanto mi dissero,
questo caso non si presenta quasi mai. Il terzo giorno sette condannati si eran già dati la
morte da sé, in mezzo alle strida dei parenti e degli amici, e all'alba del quarto giorno
soltanto due sacchi furon gettati in mare, in presenza di tutto il popolo taciturno. Mi
accorsi però che gli scampati cominciavano a riaversi e che le faccie eran più serene: un
anno di vita sicura stava dinanzi a loro.»
Pat Cairness mi ha raccontato molte altre storie, ma questa è quella che m'è rimasta più
impressa per la sua singolarità.
Giovanni PAPINI, «Il racconto dell'isola», en Gog. Satana sarà liberato, Firenze, Vallecchi, 1931, pp.
36-42. Asimismo en Giovanni PAPINI, Tutte le opere: Prose morale, Milano, Mondadori, 1959, v. VII,
pp. 317-320.
A Sereníssima República. Conferência do Cônego Vargas
Meus senhores,
Antes de comunicar-vos uma descoberta, que reputo de algum lustre para o nosso país,
deixai que vos agradeça a prontidão com que acudisses ao meu chamado. Sei que um
interesse superior vos trouxe aqui; mas não ignoro também, - e fora ingratidão ignorá-lo,
- que um pouco de simpatia pessoal se mistura à vossa legítima curiosidade científica.
Oxalá possa eu corresponder a ambas.
Minha descoberta não é recente; data do fim do ano de 1876. Não a divulguei então, - e,
a não ser O Globo, interessante diário desta capital, não a divulgaria ainda agora, - por
uma razão que achará fácil entrada no vosso espírito. Esta obra de que venho falar-vos,
carece de retoques últimos, de verificações e experiências complementares. Mas O Globo
noticiou que um sábio inglês descobriu a linguagem fônica dos insetos, e cita o estudo
feito com as moscas. Escrevi logo para a Europa e aguardo as respostas com ansiedade.
Sendo certo, porém, que pela navegação aérea, invento do padre Bartolomeu, é
glorificado o nome estrangeiro, enquanto o do nosso patrício mal se pode dizer lembrado
dos seus naturais, determinei evitar a sorte do insigne Voador, vindo a esta tribuna,
proclamar alto e bom som, à face do universo, que muito antes daquele sábio, e fora das
ilhas britânicas, um modesto naturalista descobriu coisa idêntica, e fez com ela obra
superior.
Senhores, vou assombrar-vos, como teria assombrado a Aristóteles, se lhe perguntasse:
Credes que se possa dar um regime social às aranhas? Aristóteles responderia
negativamente, com vós todos, porque é impossível crer que jamais se chegasse a
organizar socialmente esse articulado arisco, solitário, apenas disposto ao trabalho, e
dificilmente ao amor. Pois bem, esse impossível fi-lo eu.
Ouço um riso, no meio do sussurro de curiosidade. Senhores, cumpre vencer os
preconceitos. A aranha parece-vos inferior, justamente porque não a conheceis. Amais o
cão, prezais o gato e a galinha, e não advertis que a aranha não pula nem ladra como o
cão, não mia como o gato, não cacareja como a galinha, não zune nem morde como o
mosquito, não nos leva o sangue e o sono como a pulga. Todos esses bichos são o modelo
acabado da vadiação e do parasitismo. A mesma formiga, tão gabada por certas
qualidades boas, dá no nosso açúcar e nas nossas plantações, e funda a sua propriedade
roubando a alheia. A aranha, senhores, não nos aflige nem defrauda; apanha as moscas,
nossas inimigas, fia, tece, trabalha e morre. Que melhor exemplo de paciência, de ordem,
de previsão, de respeito e de humanidade? Quanto aos seus talentos, não há duas opiniões.
Desde Plínio até Darwin, os naturalistas do mundo inteiro formam um só coro de
admiração em torno desse bichinho, cuja maravilhosa teia a vassoura inconsciente do
vosso criado destrói em menos de um minuto. Eu repetiria agora esses juízos, se me
sobrasse tempo; a matéria, porém, excede o prazo, sou constrangido a abreviá-la. Tenhoos aqui, não todos, mas quase todos; tenho, entre eles, esta excelente monografia de
Büchner, que com tanta subtileza estudou a vida psíquica dos animais. Citando Darwin e
Büchner, é claro que me restrinjo à homenagem cabida a dois sábios de primeira ordem,
sem de nenhum modo absolver (e as minhas vestes o proclamam) as teorias gratuitas e
errôneas do materialismo.
Sim, senhores, descobri uma espécie araneida que dispõe do uso da fala; coligi alguns,
depois muitos dos novos articulados, e organizei-os socialmente. O primeiro exemplar
dessa aranha maravilhosa apareceu-me no dia 15 de dezembro de 1876. Era tão vasta, tão
colorida, dorso rubro, com listras azuis, transversais, tão rápida nos movimentos, e às
vezes tão alegre, que de todo me cativou a atenção. No dia seguinte vieram mais três, e
as quatro tomaram posse de um recanto de minha chácara. Estudei-as longamente; acheias admiráveis. Nada, porém, se pode comparar ao pasmo que me causou a descoberta do
idioma araneida, uma língua, senhores, nada menos que uma língua rica e variada, com a
sua estrutura sintáxica, os seus verbos, conjugações, declinações, casos latinos e formas
onomatopaicas, uma língua que estou gramaticando para uso das academias, como o fiz
sumariamente para meu próprio uso. E fi-lo, notai bem, vencendo dificuldades aspérrimas
com uma paciência extraordinária. Vinte vezes desanimei; mas o amor da ciência davame forças para arremeter a um trabalho que, hoje declaro, não chegaria a ser feito duas
vezes na vida do mesmo homem.
Guardo para outro recinto a descrição técnica do meu arácnide, e a análise da língua. O
objeto desta conferência é, como disse, ressalvar os direitos da ciência brasileira, por meio
de um protesto em tempo; e, isto feito, dizer-vos a parte em que reputo a minha obra
superior à do sábio de Inglaterra. Devo demonstrá-lo, e para este ponto chamo a vossa
atenção.
Dentro de um mês tinha comigo vinte aranhas; no mês seguinte cinqüenta e cinco; em
março de 1877 contava quatrocentas e noventa. Duas forças serviram principalmente à
empresa de as congregar: - o emprego da língua delas, desde que pude discerni-la um
pouco, e o sentimento de terror que lhes infundi. A minha estatura, as vestes talares, o uso
do mesmo idioma, fizeram-lhes crer que era eu o deus das aranhas, e desde então
adoraram-me. E vede o benefício desta ilusão. Como as acompanhasse com muita atenção
e miudeza, lançando em um livro as observações que fazia, cuidaram que o livro era o
registro dos seus pecados, e fortaleceram-se ainda mais na prática das virtudes. A flauta
também foi um grande auxiliar. Como sabeis, ou deveis saber, elas são doidas por música.
Não bastava associá-las; era preciso, dar-lhes um governo idôneo. Hesitei na escolha;
muitos dos atuais pareciam-me bons, alguns excelentes, mas todos tinham contra si o
existirem. Explico-me. Uma forma vigente de governo ficava exposta a comparações que
poderiam amesquinhá-la. Era-me preciso, ou achar uma forma nova, ou restaurar alguma
outra abandonada. Naturalmente adotei o segundo alvitre, e nada me pareceu mais
acertado do que uma república, à maneira de Veneza, o mesmo molde, e até o mesmo
epíteto. Obsoleto, sem nenhuma analogia, em suas feições gerais, com qualquer outro
governo vivo, cabia-lhe ainda a vantagem de um mecanismo complicado, - o que era
meter à prova as aptidões políticas da jovem sociedade.
Outro motivo determinou a minha escolha. Entre os diferentes modos eleitorais da antiga
Veneza, figurava o do saco e bolas, iniciação dos filhos da nobreza no serviço do Estado.
Metiam-se as bolas com os nomes dos candidatos no saco, e extraía-se anualmente um
certo número, ficando os eleitos desde logo aptos para as carreiras públicas. Este sistema
fará rir aos doutores do sufrágio; a mim não. Ele exclui os desvarios da paixão, os desazos
da inépcia, o congresso da corrupção e da cobiça. Mas não foi só por isso que o aceitei;
tratando-se de um povo tão exímio na fiação de suas teias, o uso do saco eleitoral era de
fácil adaptação, quase uma planta indígena.
A proposta foi aceita. Sereníssima República pareceu-lhes um título magnífico,
roçagante, expansivo, próprio a engrandecer a obra popular.
Não direi, senhores, que a obra chegou à perfeição, nem que lá chegue tão cedo. Os meus
pupilos não são os solários de Campanela ou os utopistas de Morus; formam um povo
recente, que não pode trepar de um salto ao cume das nações seculares. Nem o tempo é
operário que ceda a outro a lima ou o alvião; ele fará mais e melhor do que as teorias do
papel, válidas no papel e mancas na prática. O que posso afirmar-vos é que, não obstante
as incertezas da idade, eles caminham, dispondo de algumas virtudes, que presumo
essenciais à duração de um Estado. Uma delas, como já disse, é a perseverança, uma longa
paciência de Penélope, segundo vou mostrar-vos.
Com efeito, desde que compreenderam que no ato eleitoral estava a base da vida pública,
trataram de o exercer com a maior atenção. O fabrico do saco foi uma obra nacional. Era
um saco de cinco polegadas de altura e três de largura, tecido com os melhores fios, obra
sólida e espessa. Para compô-lo foram aclamadas dez damas principais, que receberam o
título de mães da república, além de outros privilégios e foros. Uma obra-prima, podeis
crê-lo. O processo eleitoral é simples. As bolas recebem os nomes dos candidatos, que
provarem certas condições, e são escritas por um oficial público, denominado "das
inscrições". No dia da eleição, as bolas são metidas no saco e tiradas pelo oficial das
extrações, até perfazer o número dos elegendos. Isto que era um simples processo inicial
na antiga Veneza, serve aqui ao provimento de todos os cargos.
A eleição fez-se a princípio com muita regularidade; mas, logo depois, um dos
legisladores declarou que ela fora viciada, por terem entrado no saco duas bolas com o
nome do mesmo candidato. A assembléia verificou a exatidão da denúncia, e decretou
que o saco, até ali de três polegadas de largura, tivesse agora duas; limitando-se a
capacidade do saco, restringia-se o espaço à fraude, era o mesmo que suprimi-la.
Aconteceu, porém, que na eleição seguinte, um candidato deixou de ser inscrito na
competente bola, não se sabe se por descuido ou intenção do oficial público. Este declarou
que não se lembrava de ter visto o ilustre candidato, mas acrescentou nobremente que não
era impossível que ele lhe tivesse dado o nome; neste caso não houve exclusão, mas
distração. A assembléia, diante de um fenômeno psicológico inelutável, como é a
distração, não pôde castigar o oficial; mas, considerando que a estreiteza do saco podia
dar lugar a exclusões odiosas, revogou a lei anterior e restaurou as três polegadas.
Nesse ínterim, senhores, faleceu o primeiro magistrado, e três cidadãos apresentaram-se
candidatos ao posto, mas só dois importantes, Hazeroth e Magog, os próprios chefes do
partido retilíneo e do partido curvilíneo. Devo explicar-vos estas denominações. Como
eles são principalmente geômetras, é a geometria que os divide em política. Uns entendem
que a aranha deve fazer as teias com fios retos, é o partido retilíneo; - outros pensam, ao
contrário, que as teias devem ser trabalhadas com fios curvos, - é o partido curvilíneo. Há
ainda um terceiro partido, misto e central, com este postulado: - as teias devem ser urdidas
de fios retos e fios curvos; é o partido reto-curvilíneo; e finalmente, uma quarta divisão
política, o partido anti-reto-curvilíneo, que fez tábua rasa de todos os princípios litigantes,
e propõe o uso de umas teias urdidas de ar, obra transparente e leve, em que não há linhas
de espécie alguma. Como a geometria apenas poderia dividi-los, sem chegar a apaixonálos, adotaram uma simbólica. Para uns, a linha reta exprime os bons sentimentos, a justiça,
a probidade, a inteireza, a constância, etc., ao passo que os sentimentos ruins ou inferiores,
como a bajulação, a fraude, a deslealdade, a perfídia, são perfeitamente curvos. Os
adversários respondem que não, que a linha curva é a da virtude e do saber, porque é a
expressão da modéstia e da humildade; ao contrário, a ignorância, a presunção, a toleima,
a parlapatice, são retas, duramente retas. O terceiro partido, menos anguloso, menos
exclusivista, desbastou a exageração de uns e outros, combinou os contrastes, e
proclamou a simultaneidade das linhas como a exata cópia do mundo físico e moral. O
quarto limita-se a negar tudo.
Nem Hazeroth nem Magog foram eleitos. As suas bolas saíram do saco, é verdade, mas
foram inutilizadas, a do primeiro por faltar a primeira letra do nome, a do segundo por
lhe faltar a última. O nome restante e triunfante era o de um argentário ambicioso, político
obscuro, que subiu logo à poltrona ducal, com espanto geral da república. Mas os
vencidos não se contentaram de dormir sobre os louros do vencedor; requereram uma
devassa. A devassa mostrou que o oficial das inscrições intencionalmente viciara a
ortografia de seus nomes. O oficial confessou o defeito e a intenção; mas explicou-os
dizendo que se tratava de uma simples elipse; delito, se o era, puramente literário. Não
sendo possível perseguir ninguém por defeitos de ortografia ou figuras de retórica,
pareceu acertado rever a lei. Nesse mesmo dia ficou decretado que o saco seria feito de
um tecido de malhas, através das quais as bolas pudessem ser lidas pelo público, e, ipso
facto, pelos mesmos candidatos, que assim teriam tempo de corrigir as inscrições.
Infelizmente, senhores, o comentário da lei é a eterna malícia. A mesma porta aberta à
lealdade serviu à astúcia de um certo Nabiga, que se conchavou com o oficial das
extrações, para haver um lugar na assembléia. A vaga era uma, os candidatos três; o
oficial extraiu as bolas com os olhos no cúmplice, que só deixou de abanar negativamente
a cabeça, quando a bola pegada foi a sua. Não era preciso mais para condenar a idéia das
malhas. A assembléia, com exemplar paciência, restaurou o tecido espesso do regime
anterior; mas, para evitar outras elipses, decretou a validação das bolas cuja inscrição
estivesse incorreta, uma vez que cinco pessoas jurassem ser o nome inscrito o próprio
nome do candidato.
Este novo estatuto deu lugar a um caso novo e imprevisto, como ides ver. Tratou-se de
eleger um coletor de espórtulas, funcionário encarregado de cobrar as rendas públicas,
sob a forma de espórtulas voluntárias. Eram candidatos, entre outros, um certo Caneca e
um certo Nebraska. A bola extraída foi a de Nebraska. Estava errada, é certo, por lhe
faltar a última letra; mas, cinco testemunhas juraram, nos termos da lei, que o eleito era o
próprio e único Nebraska da república. Tudo parecia findo, quando o candidato Caneca
requereu provar que a bola extraída não trazia o nome de Nebraska, mas o dele. O juiz de
paz deferiu ao peticionário. Veio então um grande filólogo, - talvez o primeiro da
república, além de bom metafísico, e não vulgar matemático, - o qual provou a coisa
nestes termos:
- Em primeiro lugar, disse ele, deveis notar que não é fortuita a ausência da última letra
do nome Nebraska. Por que motivo foi ele inscrito incompletamente? Não se pode dizer
que por fadiga ou amor da brevidade, pois só falta a última letra, um simples a. Carência
de espaço? Também não; vede: há ainda espaço para duas ou três sílabas. Logo, a falta é
intencional, e a intenção não pode ser outra, senão chamar a atenção do leitor para a letra
k, última escrita, desamparada, solteira, sem sentido. Ora, por um efeito mental, que
nenhuma lei destruiu, a letra reproduz-se no cérebro de dois modos, a forma gráfica e a
forma sônica: k e ca. O defeito, pois, no nome escrito, chamando os olhos para a letra
final, incrusta desde logo no cérebro, esta primeira sílaba: Ca. Isto posto, o movimento
natural do espírito é ler o nome todo; volta-se ao princípio, à inicial ne, do nome NebraskCané. Resta a sílaba do meio, bras, cuja redução a esta outra sílaba ca, última do nome
Caneca, é a coisa mais demonstrável do mundo. E, todavia, não a demonstrarei, visto
faltar-vos o preparo necessário ao entendimento da significação espiritual ou filosófica
da sílaba, suas origens e efeitos, fases, modificações, conseqüências lógicas e sintáxicas,
dedutivas ou indutivas, simbólicas e outras. Mas, suposta a demonstração, aí fica a última
prova, evidente, clara, da minha afirmação primeira pela anexação da sílaba ca às duas
Cane, dando este nome Caneca.
A lei emendou-se, senhores, ficando abolida a faculdade da prova testemunhal e
interpretativa dos textos, e introduzindo-se uma inovação, o corte simultâneo de meia
polegada na altura e outra meia na largura do saco. Esta emenda não evitou um pequeno
abuso na eleição dos alcaides, e o saco foi restituído às dimensões primitivas, dando-selhe, todavia, a forma triangular. Compreendeis que esta forma trazia consigo, uma
conseqüência: ficavam muitas bolas no fundo. Daí a mudança para a forma cilíndrica;
mais tarde deu-se-lhe o aspecto de uma ampulheta, cujo inconveniente se reconheceu ser
igual ao triângulo, e então adotou-se a forma de um crescente, etc. Muitos abusos,
descuidos e lacunas tendem a desaparecer, e o restante terá igual destino, não
inteiramente, decerto, pois a perfeição não é deste mundo, mas na medida e nos termos
do conselho de um dos mais circunspectos cidadãos da minha república, Erasmus, cujo
último discurso sinto não poder dar-vos integralmente. Encarregado de notificar a última
resolução legislativa às dez damas incumbidas de urdir o saco eleitoral, Erasmus contoulhes a fábula de Penélope, que fazia e desfazia a famosa teia, à espera do esposo Ulisses.
- Vós sois a Penélope da nossa república, disse ele ao terminar; tendes a mesma castidade,
paciência e talentos. Refazei o saco, amigas minhas, refazei o saco, até que Ulisses,
cansado de dar às pernas, venha tomar entre nós o lugar que lhe cabe. Ulisses é a
Sapiência.
FIM
Joaquim Maria MACHADO DE ASSIS, «A Sereníssima República. Conferência do Cônego Vargas»,
incluido en Papéis Avulsos, Rio de Janeiro, Lombaerts & Cia, 1882. Texto extraído de la edición de
50 contos de Machado de Assis, seleçao, introduçao e notas de John Gledson, São Paulo, Companhia
das Letras, 2007, pp. 146-153.
La gioia e la legge
Quando salì in autobus infastidì tutti. La cartella stipata di fogli altrui, l'enorme involto
che gli faceva arcuare il braccio sinistro, il fasciacollo di felpa grigia, il parapioggia sul
punto di sbocciare, tutto gli rendeva difficile l'esibizione del biglietto di ritorno; fu
costretto a poggiare il paccone sul deschetto del bigliettaio, provocò una frana di monetine
imponderabili, tentò di chinarsi per raccattarle, suscitò le proteste di coloro che stavano
dietro di lui e cui le sue more incutevano il panico di aver le falde dei cappotti attanagliate
dallo sportello automatico. Riuscì ad inserirsi nella fila di gente aggrappata alle passatoie;
era esile di corporatura ma l'affardellamento suo gli conferiva la cubatura di una suora
rigonfia di sette sottane. Mentre si slittava sulla fanghiglia attraverso il caos miserabile
del traffico, l'inopportunità della sua mole propagò il malcontento dalla coda alla testa del
carrozzone: pestò piedi, gliene pestarono, suscitò rimproveri e quando udì perfino dietro
di sé tre sillabe che alludevano ai suoi presunti infortuni coniugali, l'onore gl'ingiunse di
voltare la testa e s'illuse di aver preso una minaccia nell'espressione sfinita degli occhi.
Si percorrevano intanto strade nelle quali facciate di un rustico barocco nascondevano un
retroterra abbietto che per altro riusciva a saltar fuori ad ogni cantone; si sfilò davanti alle
luci giallognole di negozi ottuagenari.
Giunto alla sua fermata suonò il campanello, discese, incespicò nel parapioggia, si ritrovò
finalmente isolato sul suo metro quadrato di marciapiede sconnesso; si affrettò a
constatare la presenza del portafoglio di plastica. E fu libero di assaporare la propria
felicità.
Racchiuse nel portafoglio erano trentasettemiladuecentoquarantacinque lire, la
"tredicesima", riscosse un'ora fa, e cioè l'assenza di parecchie spine: quella del padrone
di casa, tanto più insistente in quanto bloccato ed al quale doveva due trimestri di pigione,
quella del puntualissimo esattore delle rate per la giacca di "lapin" della moglie ("Ti sta
molto meglio di un mantello lungo, cara; ti snellisce"); quella delle occhiatacce del
pescivendolo e del verduraio. Quei quattro biglietti di grosso taglio eliminavano anche il
timore per la prossima bolletta della luce, gli sguardi affannosi alle scarpette dei bambini,
l'osservazione ansiosa del tremolare delle fiammelle del gas liquido; non rappresentavano
l'opulenza, certo, no davvero, ma promettevano una pausa dell'angoscia, il che è la vera
gioia dei poveri; e magari un paio di migliaia di lire sarebbe soppravvissuto un attimo per
consumarsi
poi
nel
fulgore
del
pranzo
di
Natale.
Ma di "tredicesime" ne aveva avute troppe perché potesse attribuire all'esilerazione
fugace che esse producevano l'euforia che adesso lo lievitava, rosea. Rosea, sì rosea come
l'involucro del peso soave che gl'indolenziva il braccio sinistro. Essa germogliava proprio
fuori del panettone di sette chili che aveva riportato dall'ufficio. Non che egli andasse
pazzo per quel miscuglio quanto mai garantito e quanto mai dubbio di farina, zucchero,
uova in polvere e uva passa. Anzi, in fondo in fondo, non gli piaceva. Ma sette chili di
roba di lusso in una volta sola! Una circoscritta ma vasta abbondanza in una casa nella
quale i cibi entravano a etti e mezzi litri! Un prodotto illustre in una dispensa votata alle
etichette di terz'ordine! Che gioia per Maria! Che schiamazzi per i bambini che durante
due settimane avrebbero percorso quel Far West inesplorato, una merenda!
Queste però erano le gioie degli altri, gioie materiali fatte da vaniglina e di cartone
colorato, panettoni insomma. La sua felicità personale era ben diversa, una felicità
spirituale, mista di orgoglio e di tenerezza; sissignori, spirituale.
Quando poco prima il Commendatore che dirigeva il suo ufficio aveva distribuito bustepaga e auguri natalizi con l'altezzosa bonomia di quel vecchio gerarca che era, aveva
anche detto che il panettone di sette chili che la Grande Ditta Produttrice aveva inviato in
omaggio all'ufficio sarebbe stato assegnato all'impiegato più meritevole, e che quindi
pregava i cari collaboratori di voler democraticamente (proprio così disse) designare il
fortunato, seduta stante.
Il panettone intanto stava lì, al centro della scrivania, greve, ermeticamente chiuso,
"onusto di presagi" come lo stesso Commendatore avrebbe detto venti anni fa, in orbace.
Fra i colleghi erano corse risatine e mormorii; poi tutti, e il Direttore per il primo, avevano
gridato il suo nome. Una grande soddisfazione, un'assicurazione della continuità
dell'impiego, un trionfo, per dirlo in breve; e nulla poi era valso a scuotere quella
tonificante sensazione, né le trecento lire che aveva dovuto pagare al "bar" di sotto, nel
duplice lividume del tramonto burrascoso e del "neon" a bassa tensione, quando aveva
offerto il caffè agli amici, né il peso del bottino, né le parolacce intese in autobus; nulla,
neppure il balenare nelle profondità della sua coscienza che si era trattato di un atto di
sdegnosa pietà per il suo bisogno fra gli impiegati; era davvero troppo povero per
permettere che l'erbaccia della fierezza spuntasse dove non doveva.
Si diresse verso casa sua attraverso una strada decrepita cui i bombardamenti, quindici
anni prima, avevano dato le ultime rifiniture. Giunse alla piazzetta spettrale in fondo alla
quale stava ravvicchiato l'edificio fantomale.
Ma salutò gagliardamente il portinaio Cosimo che lo disprezzava perché sapeva che
percepiva uno stipendio inferiore al proprio. Nove scalini, tre scalini, nove scalini: il piano
dove abitava il cavaliere Tizio. Puah! aveva la millecento, è vero, ma anche una moglie
brutta, vecchia e scostumata. Nove scalini, tre scalini, uno sdrucciolone, nove scalini:
l'alloggio del dottor Sempronio: peggio che mai! Un figlio scioperato che ammattiva del
dottor Lambrette e Vespe, e poi l'anticamera sempre vuota. Nove scalini, tre scalini, nove
scalini: l'appartamento suo, l'alloggetto di un uomo benvoluto, onesto, onorato, premiato,
di
un
ragioniere
fuoriclasse.
Aprì la porta, penetrò nell'ingresso esiguo già ingombro dell'odore di cipolla soffritta; su
di una cassapanchina grande come un cesto depose il pesantissimo pacco, la cartella
gravida d'interesse altrui, il fasciacollo ingombrante. La sua voce squillò: "Maria, vieni
presto! Vieni a vedere che bellezza!"
La moglie uscì dalla cucina, in una vestaglia celeste segnata dalla fuliggine delle pentole,
con le piccole mani arrossate dalle risciacquature posate sul ventre deformato dai parti. I
bimbi col moccio al naso si stringevano attorno al monumento roseo, e squittivano senza
ardire
toccarlo.
"Bravo! e lo stipendio lo hai portato? Non ho più una lira, io. "Eccolo, cara; tengo per me
soltanto gli spiccioli, duecentoquarantacinque lire. Ma guarda che grazia di Dio!"
Era stata carina Maria e fino a qualche anno fa aveva avuto un musetto arguto, illuminato
dagli occhi capricciosi. Adesso le beghe con i bottegai avevano arrochito la sua voce, i
cattivi cibi guastato la sua carnagione, lo scrutare incessante di un avvenire carico di
nebbie e di scogli spento il lustro degli occhi. In lei sopravviveva soltanto un'anima santa,
quindi inflessibile e priva di tenerezza, una bontà profonda costretta ad esprimersi con
rimbrotti e divieti; ed anche un orgoglio di casta mortificato ma tenace, perché essa era
nipote di un grande cappellaio di via Indipendenza e disprezzava le non omologhe origini
del suo Girolamo che poi adorava come si adora un bimbo stupido ma caro.
Lo sguardo di lei scivolò indifferente sul cartone adorno. "Molto bene. Domani lo
manderemo all'avvocato Risma, al quale siamo molto obbligati."
L'avvocato, due anni fa, aveva incaricato lui di un complicato lavoro contabile, e, oltre ad
averlo pagato, li aveva invitati ambedue a pranzo nel proprio appartamento astrattista e
metallico nel quale il ragioniere aveva sofferto come un cane per via delle scarpe
comprate apposta. E adesso per questo legale che non aveva bisogno di niente, la sua
Maria, il suo Andrea, il suo Saverio, la piccola Giuseppina, lui stesso, dovevano
rinunziare all'unico filone di abbondanza scavato in tanti anni!
Corse in cucina, prese un coltello e si slanciò a tagliare i fili dorati che un'industre operaia
milanese aveva bellamente annodato attorno all'involucro; ma una mano arrossata gli
toccò stancamente la spalla: "Girolamo, non fare il bambino. Lo sai che dobbiamo
disobbligarci con Risma."
Parlava la Legge, la Legge emanata dai cappellai intemerati.
"Ma cara, questo è un premio, un attestato di merito, una prova di considerazione!"
"Lascia stare. Bella gente quei tuoi colleghi per i sentimenti delicati! Una elemosina, Girò,
nient'altro che un'elemosina." Lo chiamava col vecchio nome di affetto, gli sorrideva con
gli occhi nei quali lui solo poteva rintracciare gli antichi incanti."Domani comprerò un
altro panettone piccolino, per noi basterà; e quattro di quelle candele rosse a turabusciò
che sono esposte alla Standa; così sarà festa grande."
Il giorno dopo, infatti, lui acquistò un panettoncino anonimo, non quattro ma due delle
stupefacenti candelle e, per mezzo di un'agenzia, mandò il mastodonte all'avvocato
Risma, il che gli costò altre duecento lire.
Dopo Natale, del resto, fu costretto a comprare un terzo dolce che, mimetizzato in fette,
dovette portare ai colleghi che lo avevano preso in giro perché non aveva dato loro
neppure un briciolo della preda suntuosa.
Una cortina di nebbia calò poi sulla sorte del panettone primigenio.
Si recò all'agenzia "Fulmine" per reclamare. Gli venne mostrato con disprezzo il
registrino delle ricevute sul quale il domestico dell'avvocato aveva firmato a rovescio.
Dopo l'Epifania però arrivò un biglietto da visita "con vivissimi ringraziamenti ed auguri".
L'onore era stato salvato.
Giuseppe Tomasi DI LAMPEDUSA, Racconti, Prefazione di Giorgio Bassani, Milano, Feltrinelli
Editrice (Coll. "Biblioteca di letteratura". I Contemporanei: 26), 1961. Reproducido asimismo en
Newsletter Giuridica di Filodiritto - Numero 343 - 27 settembre 2010.