For a Long Moment, the War Ceased to Exist
From A Time of Gifts
by Patrick Leigh Fermor
Most of the Latin contribution [to the material recited by Fermor while walking through Europe at the age of eighteen] is as predictable as the rest: passages of Virgil, chiefly but not entirely, assimilated through writing lines at school: they went faster if one had the text by heart. As nobody seemed to mind who had written them as long as they were hexameters, I used Lucan’s Pharsalia for a while; they seemed to have just the glibness needed for the task; but I soon reverted to Virgil, rightly convinced that they would last better: my main haunts were the second and sixth books of the Aeneid, with sallies into the Georgics and the Eclogues. The other chief Romans were Catullus and Horace: Catullus – a dozen short poems and stretches of the Attis – because the young are prone (at least I was) to identify themselves with him when feeling angry, lonely, misunderstood, besotted, ill-starred or crossed in love. I probably adored Horace for the opposite reason; and taught myself a number of the Odes and translated a few of them into awkward English sapphics and alcaics. Apart from their other charms, they were infallible mood-changers.
One of them – I. ix. Ad Thaliarchum – came to my rescue in strange circumstances a few years later. The hazards of war landed me among the crags of occupied Crete with a band of Cretan guerillas and a captive German general whom we had waylaid and carried off into the mountains three days before. The German garrison of the island were in hot, but luckily temporarily misdirected, chase. It was a time of anxiety and danger; and for our captive, of hardship and distress. During a lull in the pursuit, we woke up among the rocks just as a brilliant dawn was breaking over the crest of Mount Ida. We had been toiling over it, through snow and then rain, for the last two days. Looking across the valley at this flashing mountain-crest, the general murmured to himself:
Vides ut alta stet nive candidum
Soracte ...
It was one of the ones I knew! I continued from where he had broken off:
... nec jam sustineant onus
Silvae laborantes, geluque
Flumina constiterint acuto,
and so on, through the remaining five stanzas to the end. The general’s blue eyes had swivelled away from the mountain-top to mine – and when I’d finished, after a long silence, he said: ‘Ach so, Herr Major!’ It was very strange. As though, for a long moment, the war had ceased to exist. We had both drunk at the same fountains long before; and things were different between us for the rest of our time together.
~
In the biography of Fermor, Patrick Leigh Fermor – An Adventure, by Artemis Cooper, his translation of Horace’s Ode 1.9, ‘To Thaliarchus’, is included as a short appendix. It was published in Fermor’s school magazine, The Cantuarian, in December 1930, when he was fifteen years old. Described by his housemaster (in a school report) as ‘a dangerous mixture of sophistication and recklessness’, it was not long before Fermor was expelled from school.
Fermor’s youthful translation of Horace’s Ode, Ad Thaliarchum, reads thus:
See Soracte’s mighty peak stands deep in virgin snow
And soon the heavy-laden trees their white load will not know,
When the swiftly rushing rivers with the ice have ceased to flow.
Pile, O Thaliarchus, pile the good logs on the fire!
Fetch up some crusty four-year wine in cobwebbed Sabine jar!
Then we’ll drive away Jack Frost, with his biting cold so dire!
Care-free, all other matters among the gods we’ll keep
They when they’ve checked the battling wind upon the boiling deep
Untossed about the cypress and the old ash tree may sleep.
Seek not to know what changes tomorrow may be found
But count as gain whatever lot the change of days brings round;
Spurn not, young friend, love-making, nor yet the dances round,
While withered age is distant from thy youth frequent the plain,
The thonged lawns, each fashionable haunt, a crowded lane,
And at the trysting hour, e’en nightfall, softly whispered love’s refrain.
Now doth a roguish laugh our hiding girl betray
From her dark cover, where love’s token, perforce, is snatched away,
And her ill-withstanding finger but feebly bids him nay.
Vir ’n Lang Oomblik, Het Die Oorlog Nie Bestaan Nie
Uit A Time of Gifts
deur Patrick Leigh Fermor
Die meeste van die Latynse bydraes [dit wat Fermor voorgedra het terwyl hy op die ouderdom van agtien deur Europa geloop het] was so voorspelbaar soos die res: Gedeeltes uit Virgilius, grootliks maar nie in die geheel nie, opgeneem en onthou deur die uitskryf van reëls op skool: Dit het gouer gegaan as mens dit uit jou kop uit geleer het. Niemand het skynbaar omgegee wie dit geskryf het nie, solank dit net sesvoetige verse was. Vir ’n ruk het ek Lukanis se Pharsalia gebruik, want dit het gelyk of dit net die vlotheid gehad het wat nodig was vir die taak. Gou egter het ek teruggekeer na Virgilius, tereg oortuig dat dit op die lange duur beter sou wees: Die gedeeltes wat ek die meeste besoek het, was die tweede en sesde boeke van die Aeneïde, met besoekies aan die Georgica en Ekloge. Die ander belangrikste Romeine was Catullus en Horatius: Catullus – ’n dosyn kort gedigte en gedeeltes van die Attis – want die jeug is geneig (ten minste was dit so in my geval) om hulself te identifiseer met hom wanneer hulle kwaad voel, alleen is, misverstaan word of smoorverlief is, rampspoed gehad het of gekul was in liefde. Ek het Horatius moontlik vereer vir die teenoorgestelde rede; en ’n aantal odes van buite geleer en ’n paar van hulle in lomp Engelse verse vertaal. Bo en behalwe hulle ander sjarme, was hulle onfeilbaar in die verandering van mens se gemoedstemming.
Een van Horatius se Odes – I. ix Ad Thaliarchum – het ’n paar jaar later onder vreemde omstandighede tot my redding gekom. Die gevare van oorlog het my tussen die kranse en rotse van die besette Kreta laat beland saam met ’n krygsbende Kretaanse guerrillastryders. En by ons was ’n Duitse generaal wat ons gevangene was, nadat ons hom drie dae tevore in ’n hinderlaag gelok en ontvoer het, die berge in. Die Duitse garnisoen van die eiland was warm op ons hakke, maar gelukkig tydelik op ’n verkeerde koers. Dit was ’n tyd van angs en gevaar; en vir ons gevangene, moeitevol, veeleisend en ellendig. Gedurende ’n verposing in die agtervolging, het ons tussen die rotse wakker geword juis toe daar ’n briljante oggend oor die kruin van die berg Ida aangebreek het. Vir die afgelope twee dae het ons moeisaam daaroor geswoeg, deur sneeu en reën. Terwyl hy oor die vallei uitgekyk het na die vlammende kruin van die berg, het die generaal gemompel:
Vides ut alta stet nive candidum
Soracte …
Dit was een van dié wat ek geken het! Ek het aangegaan waar hy opgehou het:
... nec jam sustineant onus
Silvae laborantes, geluque
Flumina constiterint acuto,
en so aan, regdeur die oorblywende vyf stansas tot aan die einde. Die generaal se blou oë het van die bergkruin af weggedraai na myne toe – en na ek klaar was, na ’n lang stilte, het hy gesê: “Ach so, Herr Major!” Dit was baie vreemd. Asof, vir ’n lang oomblik, die oorlog nie meer bestaan het nie. Beide van ons het jare gelede by dieselfde fontein ons dors geles; en vir die res van die tyd wat ons saam was, was dinge anders tussen ons.
~
In Fermor se lewensbeskrywing, Patrick Leigh Fermor – An Adventure, deur Artemis Cooper, is sy vertaling van Horatius se Ode 1.9, Aan Thaliarchus, ingesluit as ’n kort byvoegsel. Dit is in Desember 1930 in Fermor se skooltydskrif, The Cantuarian, gepubliseer toe hy vyftien jaar oud was. Hy is deur sy huisvader (in ’n skoolrapport) beskryf as ’n “gevaarlike mengsel van gekunsteldheid en roekeloosheid”. Dit was nie lank daarna nie dat Fermor uit sy skool geskors is.
Fermor se jeugdige vertaling van Horatius se Ode, Ad Thaliarchum, lui as volg:
Aanskou Soracte se magtige kruin bedek deur sneeu so rein
En binnekort sal die swaarbelaaide wit bome onbewus wees
Van die vinnigvloeiende riviere van ys wat ophou loop.
Gooi nog, O Thaliarchus, gooi nog van die gawe houtstompe op die vuur!
Bring van die aangesetselde, spinnerakgeweefde vierjarige ou wyn in die Sabynse kruik!
So sal ons die geniepsige winterkoue verdryf!
Sorgloos, die gode sal wel na alle ander sake omsien.
Die woeste winde op die kolkende waters sal gestuit word, en
Ongesteurd in hul rus die sipres en esboom.
Moenie vra wat die dag van more mag oplewer
Maar beskou dit wat die dae vir jou inhou, as ’n seën.
Versmaai nie die liefde nie, jongman, en die genot van dans.
Terwyl die verlepte ouderdom verafgeleë is, besoek die natuur weer en weer,
Die grasperke, geliefde skuilplekkies en besige lanings.
En teen die afgesproke tyd, in die aand miskien, word saggies van liefde gefluister.
Soete laggeluidjies verklap haar wegkruiplek.
In haar beskermende skuiling word die liefdespand teruggehou
Terwyl haar vinger halfhartig nee-weier-waai.
An Interlude in Heidelberg
From A Time of Gifts
by Patrick Leigh Fermor
On the far side of the bridge I abandoned the Rhine for its tributary and after a few miles alongside the Necktar the steep lights of Heidelberg assembled. It was dark by the time I climbed the main street and soon softly-lit panes of coloured glass, under the hanging sign of a Red Ox, were beckoning me indoors. With freezing cheeks and hair caked with snow, I clumped into an entrancing haven of oak beams and carving and alcoves and changing floor levels. A jungle of impedimenta encrusting the interior – mugs and bottles and glasses and antlers – the innocent accumulation of years, not stage props of forced conviviality – and the whole place glowed with a universal patina. It was more like a room in a castle and, except for a cat asleep in front of the stove, quite empty.
This was the moment I longed for every day. Settling at a heavy inn-table, thawing and tingling, with wine, bread, and cheese handy and my papers, books and diary all laid out; writing up the day’s doings, hunting for words in the dictionary, drawing, struggling with verses, or merely subsiding in a vacuous and contented trance while the snow thawed off my boots.
An elderly woman came downstairs and settled by the stove with her sewing. Spotting my stick and rucksack and the puddle of melting snow, she said, with a smile, ‘Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind?’ My German, now fifteen days old, was just up to this: ‘Who rides so late through night and wind?’ But I was puzzled by reitet. (How was I to know that it was the first line of Goethe’s famous Erlkönig, made more famous still by the music of Schubert?) What, a foreigner? I knew what to say at this point, and came in on cue: … ‘Englischer Student … zu Fass nach Konstantinopel’ … I’d got it pat by now. ‘Konstantinopel?’ she said. ‘Oh Weh!’ O Woe! So far! And in midwinter too. She asked where I would be the day after, on New Year’s Eve. Somewhere on the road, I said. ‘You can’t go wandering about in the snow on Sylvesterabend!’ she answered. ‘And where are you staying tonight, pray?’ I hadn’t thought yet. Her husband had come in a little while before and overheard our exchange. ‘Stay with us,’ he said. You must be our guest.’
They were the owner and his wife and their names were Herr and Frau Spengel. Upstairs, on my hostess’s orders, I fished out things to be washed – it was my first laundry since London – and handed them over to the maid: wondering, as I did so, how a German would get on in Oxford if he turned up at The Mitre on a snowy December night.
~
This Palatine sun was the dying wick of 1933; the last vestige of that ownerless rump of the seasons that stretches from the winter solstice to the New Year. ‘’Tis the year’s midnight … the whole world’s sap is sunk.’ …
That night at the inn, I noticed that a lint-haired young man at the next table was fixing me with an icy gleam. Except for pale blue eyes set flush with his head like a hare’s, he might have been an albino. He suddenly rose with a stumble, came over, and said: ‘So? Ein Engländer?’, with a sardonic smile. ‘Wunderbar!’ Then his face changed to a mask of hate. Why had we stolen Germany’s colonies? Why shouldn’t Germany have a fleet and a proper army? Did I think Germany was going to take orders from a country that was run by the Jews? A catalogue of accusations followed, not very loudly, but clearly and intensely articulated. His face, which was almost touching mine, raked me with long blasts of schnapps-breath. ‘Adolf Hitler will change all that,’ he ended. ‘Perhaps you’ve heard the name?’
Fritz shut his eyes with a bored groan and murmured ‘Um Gottes willen!’ Then he took him by the elbow with the words, ‘Komm Franzi!’; and, rather surprisingly, my accuser allowed himself to be led to the door. Fritz sat down again, saying: ‘I’m so sorry. You see what it’s like.’ Luckily none of the other tables had noticed and the hateful moment was soon superseded by feasting and talk and wine and, later, by songs to usher in St Sylvester’s Vigil; and by the time the first bells of 1934 were clashing outside, everything had merged in a luminous haze of music and toasts and greetings.
Frau Spengel insisted that it was absurd to set off on New Year’s Day; so I spent another twenty-four hours wandering about the town and the castle and reading and writing and talking with this kind and civilised family. (My sojourn at the Red Ox, afterwards, was one of several high points of recollection that failed to succumb to the obliterating moods of war. I often thought of it.)
~
After writing these words and wondering whether I had spelt the name Spengel right – also to discover what had happened to the family – on a sudden impulse I sent a letter to the Red Ox, addressed ‘to the proprietor’. A very nice letter from Fritz’s son – he was born in 1939 – tells me that not only are my host and hostess dead, but that Fritz was killed in Norway (where the first battalion of my own regiment at the time was heavily engaged) and buried at Trondheim in 1940, six years after we met. The present Herr Spengel is the sixth generation of the same family to own and run this delightful inn.
’n Verposing in Heidelberg
Uit A Time of Gifts
deur Patrick Leigh Fermor
Aan die anderkant van die brug het ek my rug op die Ryn gedraai en na ek ’n paar myl langs die Necktar, sy sytak, geloop het, het die sterk ligte van Heidelberg begin flikker. Dit was reeds donker toe ek die hoofstraat opgeloop het, en kort voor lank het die sagverligte vensterruite van gekleurde glas onder die uithangbord van ’n Rooi Os, my na binne gelok. Met verkluimde wange en sneeugekoekte hare het ek met sware voeteval die verruklike toevlugsoord van eikebalke en houtsnywerk en alkowe en wisselende vloerhoogtes binnegeloop. Hier was daar ’n woud van voorwerpe – bekers en bottels en glase en horings van wildsbokke – die onskuldige versameling van jare, glad nie teaterbenodigdhede van gedwonge opvroliking nie – en die hele plek het gegloei met ’n universele patina. Dit was meer soos ’n kamer in ’n kasteel, en behalwe vir die slapende kat voor die stoof, was dit heeltemal leeg.
Dit was die oomblik waarna ek elke dag verlang het. Gerieflik tuisgemaak by ’n swaar herbergtafel, al ontdooiende en tintelende, met wyn, brood, en kaas gemaklik naby en my notas, boeke en dagboek alles voor my gerangskik; besig om die dag se doen en late neer te pen, soekende vir woorde in die woordeboek, sketse maak, ’n gesukkel met strofes, of bloot net wegsak in ’n wesenlose en bevredigende vervoering van die gees terwyl die sneeu van my stewels afsmelt.
’n Bejaarde vrou het met die trappe afgestap gekom en naby die stoof gevestig geraak met haar naaldwerk. Toe sy my loopstok en rugsak en die plassie smeltende sneeu opmerk, het sy met ’n glimlag gesê: “Wer reitet so spat durch Nacht und Wind?” My Duits wat nou vyftien dae oud was, het dit só verstaan: “Wie ry so laat deur nag en wind?” Maar die “reitet” was vir my ’n raaisel. (Hoe was dit moontlik vir my om te weet dat dit die eerste versreël van Goethe se beroemde Erlkönig was, en wat selfs beroemder gemaak is deur Schubert se musiek?) Wat, ’n vreemdeling? Ek het geweet wat om op dié wenk te sê, en kon hervat met: … “Englischer Student … zu Fass nach Konstantinopel.” Ek kon myself ’n pluimpie gee. “Konstantinopel?” het sy gesê. “Oh Weh!” O wee! So ver! En dit in die middel van die winter. Hierna het sy verneem waar ek die volgende dag, oujaarsdag, sou wees. Êrens op die pad het ek gesê. “Jy kan nie êrens in die sneeu op Silvesterabend gaan rondploeter nie!” het sy geantwoord. “En sê my, waar slaap jy vanaand?” Daaraan het ek nog nie gedink nie. Haar man het ’n rukkie tevore binnegekom en die gesprek toevallig gehoor. “Bly by ons,” het hy gesê. “Jy moet ons gas wees.”
Hulle was die eienaar en sy vrou en hulle name was Herr en Frau Spengel. Bo in my kamer volgens my gasvrou se opdrag, het ek my vuil wasgoed opgediep – dit was die eerste keer sedert my vertrek uit Londen – en dit aan die bediende oorhandig: en gewonder hoe ’n Duitser oor die weg gaan kom as hy, soos ek, op ’n sneeuerige Desembernag by The Mitre in Oxford opdaag.
~
Hierdie palatynse son was die sterwende pit van 1933; die laaste oorblyfsel van daardie eienaarlose agterste gedeelte van die seisoene wat strek vanaf die wintersonstilstand tot by nuwejaar. “Tis the year’s midnight … the whole world’s sap is sunk.”
Daardie aand by die herberg het ek opgemerk dat ’n jong kêrel met woeste hare wat by die tafel langs my gesit het, my met ’n kille blik aangegluur het. Was dit nie vir die bleekblou oë wat plat teen sy kop gesit het soos ’n haas s’n nie, kon hy ’n albino gewees het. Hy het skielik al struikelend opgestaan, na my toe gekom, en met ’n sardoniese glimlag gesê: “So? Ein Engländer? Wunderbar!” Toe het sy gesig in ’n masker van haat verander. Hoekom het ons die Duitse kolonies gesteel? Waarom kon Duitsland nie ’n vloot en ’n ordentlike weermag hê nie? Het ek gedink Duitsland gaan bevele neem van ’n land wat deur Jode regeer word? ’n Katalogus van beskuldigings het gevolg, nie te luidrugtig nie, maar tog duidelik en fel geartikuleerd. Sy gesig wat amper teenaan myne was, het my laat gril met uitgerekte vlae van schnapps-asem. “Adolf Hitler sal dit alles verander,” was sy laaste woorde. “Dalk het jy dié naam al gehoor?”
Fritz het met ’n verveelde gekreun sy oë toegemaak en gebrom: “Um Gottes willen!” Toe het hy hom aan sy elmboog gevat met die woorde: “Komm Franzi!”; en nogal heel verrassend het my beskuldiger toegelaat om na die deur begelei te word. Fritz het weer kom sit en gesê: “Ek is so jammer. Jy kan sien hoe dit is.” Gelukkig het die ander tafels niks agtergekom nie en gou was die haatlike oomblik vervang deur ’n gefeesvierdery en praat en wyn en later, deur te sing om so St. Silvester se waak in te lui. En teen die tyd wat die eerste klokke van 1934 buite gelui het, het alles verenig in ’n stralende beneweldheid van musiek en heildronke en hartlike begroetings.
Frau Spengel het daarop aangedring dat dit belaglik was om op nuwejaarsdag die pad te vat; dus het ek ’n verdere vier en twintig uur bestee deur in die dorp rond te wandel en die kasteel te besoek. Ek kon ook lees en skryf, en gesels met dié goedhartige, gawe en beskaafde familie. (My verblyf by die Rooi Os sou later blyk te gewees het een van die verskeie hoogtepunte van my herinneringe wat nie geswig het teen die vernietigende gestemdheid van die oorlog nie. Ek het baie daaraan teruggedink.)
~
Na ek dié woorde geskryf het en gewonder het of ek die naam Spengel reg gespel het – en ook om uit te vind wat van die familie geword het – het ek skielik impulsief ’n brief aan die Rooi Os gestuur, geadresseer aan “die eienaar”. ’n Pragtige brief van Fritz se seun – gebore in 1939 – het my vertel dat nie alleen was beide die gasheer en gasvrou oorlede nie, maar Fritz het in Noorweë gesterf (waar die eerste bataljon van my eie regiment daardie tyd in swaar gevegte betrokke was) en is in 1940 in Trondheim begrawe, ses jaar na ons ontmoeting. Die huidige Herr Spengel is die sesde generasie van dieselfde familie wat hierdie genoeglike herberg besit en bestuur.
An Impression of Infinite and Glowing Viennese Charm
From A Time of Gifts
by Patrick Leigh Fermor
Waking one morning, I saw that it was March 3rd. It was impossible to believe that I’d been in Vienna three weeks! The days had sped by. They had simultaneously spun themselves into a miniature lifetime and turned me into a temporary Viennese. (Unlike halts in summer, winter sojourns bestow a kind of honorary citizenship.) There is little to account for this long lapse of days; there seldom is, in the towns on this journey. I had met many people of different kinds, had eaten meals in a number of hospitable houses, above all, I had seen a lot. Later, when I read about this period in Vienna, I was struck by the melancholy which seems to have impressed the writers so strongly. It owed less to the prevailing political uncertainty than to the fallen fortunes of the old imperial city. These writers knew the town better than I, and they must have been right; and I did have momentary inklings of this sadness. But my impression of infinite and glowing charm is probably the result of a total immersion in the past coupled with joyful dissipation. I felt a touch of guilt about my long halt; I had made friends, and departure would be a deracination. Bent on setting off next day, I began assembling my scattered gear.
What was the name of the village on that penultimate morning, and where was it? West of Vienna, and certainly higher; but all the other details have gone. It was Saturday; everybody was free; we drove there in two motor-cars and feasted in an inn perched on the edge of a beech forest. Then, tingling with glühwein and Himbeergeist, we toiled in high spirits and with the snow halfway up our shanks down a long forest ride. We halted in clouds of our own breath and looked north-east and across Vienna towards Czechoslovakia and the dim line of the Little Carpathians; and, just as the sun was beginning to set, we came on a tarn in a ghostly wood of rime-feathered saplings as two-dimensional and brittle-seeming as white ferns. The water was solid, like a rink. Breaking icicles off the trees, we sent the fragments bounding across the surface and into the assembling shadows with an eerie twittering sound and an echo that took half a minute to die away. It was dark when we drove back, talking and singing with the prospect of a cheerful last evening ahead. How different it seemed from my first arrival …
Prompted by my recent preoccupations, perhaps, the conversation veered to Charles V’s grandfather, the first Maximilian: The Last of the Knights, as he was called, half landsknecht, and, until you looked more carefully at Dürer’s drawing, half card-playing monarch. Someone was describing how he used to escape from the business of the Empire now and then by retiring to a remote castle in the Tyrolese or Styrian forests. Scorning muskets and crossbows and armed only with a long spear, he would set out for days after stag and wild boar. It was during one of these holidays that he composed a four-line poem, and inscribed it with chalk, or in lampblack, on the walls of the castle cellar. It was still there, the speaker said.
Who told us all this? … I’ve forgotten, just as I’ve forgotten the place we were coming from and the name of the castle. Whoever it was, I must have asked him to write it out, for here it is, transcribed inside the cover of a diary I began a fortnight later – frayed and battered now – with the old Austrian spelling painstakingly intact. There was something talismanic about these lines, I thought.
Leb, waiss nit wie lang,
Und stürb, waiss nit wann
Muess fahren, waiss nit wohin
Mich wundert, das ich so frelich hin.
~
Patrick Leigh Fermor’s translation:
Live, don’t know how long,
And die, don’t know when;
Must go, don’t know where;
I am astonished I am so cheerful.
~
Author’s footnote: ‘Stop press! I’ve just discovered that the castle is Schloss Tratzberg. It is near Jenbach, still standing, and not very far from Innsbruck.’
’n Indruk van Tydlose en Gloedvolle Weense Sjarme
Uit A Time of Gifts
deur Patrick Leigh Fermor
Met my wakker word een oggend, besef ek dat dit die 3de Maart was. Dit was onmoontlik om te glo dat ek reeds drie weke in Wene was. Die dae het verbygevlieg en hulself terselfdertyd in ’n leeftyd in die kleine gespin, en my tydelik in ’n Wener verander. (Anders as stilhouplekke in die somer, skenk ’n verblyf in die winter ’n soort van ereburgerskap.) Daar is nie juis ’n verklaring vir hierdie langsame verstryking van dae in die dorpe op hierdie reis nie; daar selde is. Ek het baie verskillende soorte mense ontmoet, etes in ’n hele aantal gasvrye huise genuttig, maar bowenal, het ek baie gesien. Lateraan, toe ek weer oor hierdie tydperk in Wene gelees het, is ek getref deur die neerslagtigheid wat blykbaar die skrywers so sterk beïndruk het. Die huidige politieke onsekerheid het minder daarmee te doen gehad as die kwynende voorspoed van die ou keiserlike stad. Hierdie skrywers het die dorp beter as ek geken, en hulle moes reg gewees het; daar was nogal oomblikke wat ek hulle weemoed gedeel het. Maar my indruk van die tydlose en gloedvolle sjarme is seker die gevolg van ’n algehele betrokkenheid in die verlede tesame met vreugdevolle pret. My gewete het my so ietwat gepla dat ek so lank daar oorgestaan het; ek het vriende gemaak, en om te vertrek sou ’n ontworteling wees. Vasbeslote om die volgende dag die pad te vat, het ek my goed en klerasie wat orals rondgelê het bymekaar begin maak.
Wat was die naam van die dorp op daardie voorlaaste oggend, en waar was dit? Wes van Wene, en verseker lê dit hoër, maar al die ander besonderhede is vergete. Dit was Saterdag; almal was vry; ons het in twee motorkarre gery en by ’n herberg wat langs ’n beukeboomwoud geleë was, feesgevier. Toe, getintel van die glüwein en Himbeergeist, het ons met moeite geloop, heel vrolik, en met die sneeu amper tot by ons knieë, weer af, in ’n lang woudrit. Ons het halt geroep in wolke van ons eie asem en vandaar noordooswaarts gekyk, regoor Wene na Czechoslovakia waar die fyn lyn van die Klein Carpathiaanse-bergreeks te siene was. En toe met dat die son besig was om te sak, het ons in ’n spookagtige woud op ’n bergmeertjie afgekom waar die takkies van die jong boompies wat vol ryp was, gelyk het soos wit varings, twee dimensioneel en bros. Die water was vasgeys, solied soos ’n ysbaan. Die yskeëls wat ons van die bome afgebreek het, het ons oor die oppervlakte van die dammetjie gegooi en dit het met ’n onheilspellende trillende klank geglybons na waar die skaduwees bymekaargekom het met ’n weerklank wat ’n halwe minuut geneem het om weg te raak. Dit was donker toe ons terug bestuur het, al pratende en singende met die vooruitsig van ’n genotvolle laaste aand wat op ons gewag het. Hoe anders het dit gevoel as toe ek eers hier aangehom het.
Miskien as gevolg van my gedagtes wat in beslag geneem was, het die gesprek die wending na Karel V se oupa, die eerste Maximiliaan, geneem. Die laaste van die ridders, soos na hom verwys is, half landskneg, en, tot jy met meer aandag na Dürer se skildery gekyk het, ook so half van ’n kaartspelende monarg. Iemand het beskryf hoe hy af en toe geneig was om van die sake van die keiserryk te ontvlug na ’n kasteel in die Tiroolse of Styriaanse woude. Hy het nie belang gestel in roers en kruisboë nie en gewapen met slegs ’n lang spies, het hy dae lank jagtogte onderneem op soek na takbokke en wildevarke. Dit was gedurende een van dié wegbreekvakansies dat hy ’n kwatryn geskryf het, en dit met kryt of lamproet teen die muur van die kasteel se kelder uitgekrap het. Die verteller het gesê dat dit nog steeds daar was.
Wie was dit wat ons dié dinge vertel het? … Ek het vergeet, net soos ek die plek waarvandaan ons gekom het en die naam van die kasteel, vergeet het. Wie dit ookal was, ek moes hom seker gevra het om dit neer te skryf, want hier is dit, aan die binnekant van ’n dagboek wat ek twee weke later begin hou het, geskryf – nou ietwat toiingrig en flenterig, maar met die ou Oostenrykse spelling ongeskonde. Ek het gedink dat daar iets talismanies aan die versreëls verbonde was.
Leb, waiss nit wie lang,
Und stürb, waiss nit wann
Muess fahren, waiss nit wohin
Mich wundert, das ich so frelich hin.
~
Vertaal deur Hendrik Jansen uit Patrick Leigh Fermor se Engelse vertaling:
Lewe, weet nie vir hoe lank,
En sterf, weet nie wanneer,
Moet vertrek, weet nie waarheen,
Heel verwonderd, dat ek so vrolik is.
~
Skrywer se voetnota: “Laat berig! Ek het so pas ontdek dat die kasteel Schloss Tratzberg heet. Dit is naby Jenbach, dit bestaan nog, en is nie baie ver van Innsbruck af nie.”
St Petersburg
From The Great Boer Escape
by Willie Steyn
[Featured at the Franschhoek Literary Festival, 16 May 2015]
We travelled across flat countryside, then through dense forests. It was winter, with snow stretching as far as the eye could see – a strange sight for men from sunny South Africa.
The morning after leaving Theodosia we arrived at a beautiful city called Vilna, where a particularly large crowd was gathered at the station. The platform was completely overcrowded, and the police had to make a path for us to pass through. We went to a reception hall and within seconds it was filled with people. This public attention, however well-intended, soon became tiresome, and we were pleased when the owner sent the crowd away, leaving only the five of us with our three Russian friends.
We sat down at a long table, but the peace did not last long, for the owner then allowed a number of women, of all ages, to enter the hall; and they stood staring at us and waving us adieu.
After lunch the officers told us that we would have to travel to St Petersburg on our own, as they had been instructed to leave for a place called Sivolki. The only way we could get to St Petersburg without passports was through the military. We would have to pose as recruits, for which purpose the Recruiting Officer provided us with the necessary documentation.
Accordingly, we were dressed up as Russian farmers – knee-length overcoats made out of sheepskin, with the wool on the inside, Russian ‘astrakan’ caps, thick gloves made out of a kind of felt, and high boots made from the same material, but compressed. Thus kitted out, we left for St Petersburg.
That Sunday morning, as we disembarked from the train in St Petersburg, a policeman approached us and said in Russian: ‘Passports, please.’ We produced the documents we had been given, he looked at them and said ‘thank you’, and he walked on. We had been briefed beforehand, and had memorised the few essential Russian words to be spoken.
We knew that we would meet friends of the Boers in St Petersburg, and that we could expect a friendly reception and assistance from them. We had already received an invitation from the local Dutch Reformed Church minister.
We walked to the sleighs that were used as taxis, and asked to be taken to the Reverend Gillot, minister of the Dutch Reformed Church, whose address we had written on a visiting card. After about fifteen minutes we stopped in front of his house.
Reverend Gillot had invited us by telegram when we arrived in Theodosia, and he met us at the door with a hearty welcome. We were served lunch in his beautiful home, after which we were taken to the Hotel Dogma, where the dominee’s parish clerk arranged our accommodation. There was a slight delay when the owner of the hotel would not allow us in without passports, but this was soon sorted out by the clerk.
After attending a church service – it was a Sunday – we spent the rest of the day with Reverend Gillot, who of course spoke fluent Dutch. We had to repeat the story of our escape, and we also discussed the war in South Africa at length.
The Russian-Dutch Ambulance Service, which was of so much assistance at the beginning of the war, had been the brainchild of this good man. I had personally often seen the ambulance workers on the battlefield, and it gave him great pleasure to hear first-hand news about this from us.
We were later introduced to Mr and Mrs Palovtshoff, the former being an important person in the secret service of His Majesty the Tsar. Mrs Palovtshoff was the secretary of the Ambulance Committee, and in this capacity she had done a great deal for us by tirelessly raising funds, holding bazaars, etc. She gave us each an album which had been specially produced and was being sold to raise funds. I still own this interesting book, which is one of the few momentos I was able to retain during our long and arduous return journey. Such was her dedication that President Steyn had given Mrs Palovtshoff a gold brooch bearing the Free State emblem, in appreciation of her services.
