Tag: Gerrit Wustmann

Patrick Rambaud, Gerrit Wustmann

De Franse schrijver Patrick Rambaud werd geboren op 21 april 1946 in Parijs. Zie ook alle tags voor Patrick Rambaud op dit blog.

Uit: The Battle (Vertaald door Will Hobson)

“Berthier had in turn climbed out of the Berline and gone to join Napoleon, who was sitting on the stump of a durmast oak. The two men were almost the same height and they wore the same type of hat; from a distance, they might have been mistaken for one another. But the Chief of Staff had thick, curly hair and a corpulent face which lacked the symmetry of Napoleon’s. Together they looked at the Danube.
‘Sire,’ said Berthier, biting his fingernails, `the place seems well chosen.’
‘Sulla carta militare, ” evidente!‘ replied the Emperor, cramming his nostrils with snuff.
‘The depth still needs to be sounded from skiffs …’
That’s your concern!’
‘… the strength of the current measured …’
Your concern!’
Berthier’s concern, as usual, was to obey. Loyal and meticulous, he always carried out his master’s wishes to the letter and, as a consequence, had acquired enormous power, the self-interested devotion of others and no small amount of jealousy.

********************************************************

The section of the Danube before them was split into several branches, which slowed its current, and was further broken up by a number of islands covered in meadows, scrub and woods of elms, willows and spreading oaks. An islet between the bank and the largest of these islands, the island of Lobau, would serve as a point of support for the bridge they were going to build. On the other side of the river, at the Lobau’s furthest point, they could see a small, level expanse stretching to the villages of Aspern and Essling and then, rising above the thickets of trees, the two village steeples. Beyond that, an immense plain planted with green crops and watered by a stream that dried up in May, and finally, on the left, the wooded heights of Bisamberg, where the Austrian troops had fallen back after burning the bridges.
The bridges! Four years earlier the Emperor had entered Vienna as a saviour, its inhabitants running to meet his army. This time, when he reached its poorly protected suburbs, he had been forced to lay siege to the city for three days, and even bombard it before the garrison withdrew.
An initial attempt to cross the Danube near the destroyed Spitz bridge had failed recently. Five hundred light infantrymen of Saint-Hilaire’s division, under the command of chefs de bataillons Rateau and Poux, had gained a foothold on the island of Schwartze-Laken, but acting without precise orders or coordination they had neglected to station a reserve company in a large house well placed for protecting the landing of further troops. Half of their men had been killed; the others were wounded or captured by the enemy vanguard stationed on the left bank, which played the Austrian anthem by Herr Haydn every morning to rouse the spirits of the Viennese.”

 

Patrick Rambaud (Parijs, 21 april 1946)

 

Onafhankelijk van geboortedagen:

De Duitse dichter Gerrit Wustmann werd in 1982 in Keulen geboren. Zie ook alle tags voor Gerrit Wustmann op dit blog.

 

galata kulesi beneden

’s nachts de akkoorden van de sitar
en de klaagzang van de saz van de man
die hier altijd zit met de klacht
van de bomen en de violen
die uit ramen klinken
om twee uur ’s ochtends stemt
de gitaarbouwer nog een laatste
instrument voordat hij de laatste
katten voedt een laatste çay
een laatste nog op het laatst deze
blik deze lach en
de nachtlichten van de schepen
op de bosporus

 

Vertaald door Frans Roumen

 

Gerrit Wustmann (Keulen, 1982)

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 21e april ook mijn blog van 21 april 2020 en eveneens mijn blog van 21 april 2019 deel 2 en eveneens deel 3.

Charlotte Brontë, Gerrit Wustmann

De Britse schrijfster Charlotte Brontë werd geboren in Thornton op 21 april 1816. Zie ook alle tags voor Charlotte Brontë op dit blog.

Uit: Jane Eyre

” Good-night, then, sir,” said I, departing. He seemed surprised—very inconsistently so, as he had just told me to go. ” What!” he exclaimed, “are you quitting me already, and in that way?” ” You said I might go, sir.” ” But not without taking leave; not without a word or two of acknowledgment and good-will: not, in short, in that brief, dry fashion. Why, you have saved my life! —snatched me from a horrible and excruciating death! and you walk past me as if we were mutual strangers! At least shake hands.” He held out his hand; I gave him mine: he took it first in one, them in both his own. ” You have saved my life: I have a pleasure in owing you so immense a debt. I cannot say more. Nothing else that has being would have been tolerable to me in the character of creditor for such an obligation: but you: it is different;—I feel your benefits no burden, Jane.” He paused; gazed at me: words almost visible trembled on his lips,—but his voice was checked. ” Good-night again, sir. There is no debt, benefit, burden, obligation, in the case.” ” I knew,” he continued, “you would do me good in some way, at some time; —I saw it in your eyes when I first beheld you: their expression and smile did not”—(again he stopped)—”did not” (he proceeded hastily) “strike delight to my very inmost heart so for nothing. People talk of natural sympathies; I have heard of good genii: there are grains of truth in the wildest fable. My cherished preserver, goodnight!” Strange energy was in his voice, strange fire in his look. ” I am glad I happened to be awake,” I said: and then I was going. ” What! you will go?” ” I am cold, sir.” ” Cold? Yes,—and standing in a pool! Go, then, Jane; go!” But he still retained my hand, and I could not free it. I bethought myself of an expedient. ” I think I hear Mrs. Fairfax move, sir,” said I. ” Well, leave me:” he relaxed his fingers, and I was gone.”

 

Charlotte Brontë (21 april 1816 – 31 maart 1855)
Cover

 

Onafhankelijk van geboortedagen:

De Duitse dichter Gerrit Wustmann werd in 1982 in Keulen geboren. Zie ook alle tags voor Gerrit Wustmann op dit blog.

 

Berlijn II

de stoel waarop je zit
voor de spiegel waarin
de gordijnen zijn opgeruimd
het is een stille stoel
hij laat je huid
ritselen de rugleuningen strelen
je handen die
niet weten waar naartoe
aan je handen
ontglijden de woorden zetten zich vast
in de groeven en nissen
tot de een of ander
ze vindt

 

Vertaald door Frans Roumen

 

Gerrit Wustmann (Keulen, 1982)

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 21e april ook mijn blog van 21 april 2019 deel 2 en eveneens deel 3.

Peter Schneider, Alistair MacLean, Népomucène Lemercier, Meira Delmar, Gerrit Wustmann

De Duitse schrijver Peter Schneider werd geboren in Lübeck op 21 april 1940. Zie ook alle tags voor Peter Schneider op dit blog.

Uit: Die Lieben meiner Mutter

„Manchmal kam es zum Streit zwischen uns, und ich musste mich des Eindrucks erwehren, dass ich nicht der Entzifferin der Briefe, sondern ihrer Verfasserin gegenübersaß.
Aus den Briefen trat mir eine junge Frau entgegen, die ich nicht kannte. Eine Mutter, die sich für ihre Kinder zerriss und sie dank ihres Wagemuts und ihrer praktischen Intelligenz auf einer langen Flucht aus dem äußersten Nordosten Deutschlands wohlbehalten in den südlichsten Zipfel Bayerns brachte. Eine Ehefrau, die ihrem Mann Heinrich zwischen tausend Nachrichten über das Alltägliche und das Wohlergehen der Kinder zärtliche, manchmal auch zickige Zeichen ihrer Liebe schickte. Und eine Träumende, die von ihrer Leidenschaft für Andreas, einen Freund und Kollegen ihres Mannes, verzehrt wurde.
Vor allem aber lernte ich eine Schreibende kennen, die ihren Schwankungen zwischen Lebenslust und Schwermut fast hilflos ausgeliefert war, aber noch in den Augenblicken völliger Verzweiflung über eine erstaunliche Ausdrucksfähigkeit verfügte. Das Schreiben ist für die Mutter offenbar ein Überlebensmittel gewesen, eine Waffe, mit dem sie die zerstörerischen Kräfte, die von außen wie von innen auf sie einstürmten, in Schach zu halten versuchte. Die Form, die sie in ihrem kurzen Leben für das Schreiben fand, waren ihre Briefe. Sie war einundvierzig, als sie starb.
Über mich, den damals Sieben- und Achtjährigen, hatte sie alle Macht verloren. Hilflos musste sie mit anschauen, wie meine ältere Schwester und ich in den Bann eines jugendlichen Zauberers gerieten, der ihr den Zugang zu uns versperrte. Nachts im Bett verwandelte ich mich in ein anderes Wesen. Ich flog, aber dies war kein Fliegen, wie ich es bei den Vögeln beobachtete, die hoch über mir in dem engen, von mächtigen Felswänden eingeschlossenen Himmel kreisten. Es war ein Fliegen, das aus dem Laufen und Rennen entstand, ein Springen und Hinweggleiten über die steilen Hänge, wobei der Fuß nach dem Abstoßen wie versehentlich den Kamm des nächsten und übernächsten Hügels streifte, bis – man musste sich bloß trauen! – die Berührung mit der Fußspitze überflüssig war und nur noch der Vergewisserung diente, dass ich mich nicht zu hoch über die Erde erhoben hatte. Plötzlich war dieses mächtige Sausen in meinen Ohren, und der ganze Hügel- und federlose Körper rauschte hinaus ins Freie, während die Hügel jählings unter mir wegstürzten wie eine Erdlawine, die ich mit den Zehenspitzen losgetreten hatte. Eine kurze Ewigkeit lang glitt ich dahin in der beängstigenden und herrlichen Leere, leicht, aber nicht schwerelos, denn der Körper kannte immer noch seine Bestimmung, erdwärts zu fallen, und dies würde unweigerlich geschehen, sobald ich an den Absturz dachte.”

 


Peter Schneider (Lübeck, 21 april 1940)
Cover

 

De Schotse schrijver Alistair Stuart MacLean werd geboren op 21 april 1922 in Glasgow. Zie ook alle tags voor Alistair MacLean op dit blog.

Uit: The Golden Gate

“The coach, one of six ever made, had cost Branson ninety thousand dollars: for the purposes for which he intended to use it, he considered this figure a trifling investment He was buying the coach, he had told the Detroit firm, as an agent for a publicity-shy millionaire, who was also an eccentric who wanted it painted yellow. And yellow it had been when it was delivered: it was now a gleaming, translucent white.
Two of the remaining five coaches had been bought by genuine and extrovert millionaires, both of whom intended them for luxurious, personal vacation travel. Both buses had rear ramps to accommodate their mini-cars. Both, presumably, would rest for about fifty weeks a year in their specially-built garages.
The other three buses had been bought by the government.
The dawn was not yet in the sky.
The other three white buses were in a garage in down-town San Francisco. The big sliding doors were closed and bolted. In a canvas chair in a corner a man in plain clothes, a sawn-off riot gun held on his lap by flaccid hands, slept peacefully. He had been dozing when the two intruders arrived and was now blissfully unaware that he had sunk into an even deeper sleep because he’d inhaled the single-second squirt from the gas gun without being aware of the fact. He would wake up within the hour almost equally unaware of what had happened and would be extremely unlikely to admit to his superiors that his vigilance had been a degree less than eternal.”

 

 
Alistair MacLean (28 april 1922 – 2 februari 1987)
Cover

 

De Franse dichter en schrijver Népomucène Lemercier werd geboren op 21 april 1771 in Parijs. Zie ook alle tags voor Népomucène Lemercier op dit blog.

Uit: Agamemnon

« PALLENE Ainsi donc tes destins sont im-ennus encore.
ÉGISTE: Clitemnestre les sait, le reste les ignore.
PALLENE. Aux transports d’une femme, à son coeur indiscret;
falloit-ii confier ton nom et ton secret?
ÉGISTE: J’en devois à ses feux l’utile confidence.
PALLENE. L’amour aveugle-t-il à tel point ta prudence
que trahissant Égiste en des lieux ennemis?. •
ÉGISTE: Penses-tu, qu’à l’amour en esclave soumis,
usé des longs chagrins où ‘vécut ma jeunesse,
je suive de ses lois la honteuse mollesse ?
PALLENE. Je vois ici les Grecs, de tes destins jaloux,
te rendre lus respe,ts.qu’on dut à son époux.
Moi-merne, je pensois que les yeux de la reine
soumettoient ton orgueil à porter une chaine.
ÉGISTE:. On croit que ses faveurs me fixant à sa cour,
m’en font seule chérir le tranquille séjour:
ainsi lorsque nies vieux aspirent à son trône,
arrive à pas secrets l’instant qui me couronne;
j’écarte, en nourrissant moi-meme cette erreur,
le senly»n des complets conçus par ma fureur.
Tu sas Clitemnestre aux lassions livrée
naquit diène de vvre aveu le ails d’ Atrée:
vaine, extrême. farouche en tous ses sentimens,
elle ne met nul frein â ses emportemens;
fatale épouse autant que mère courageuse,
enfin, elle est amants, et cette aine orageuse
qui de son chaste hymen étoit fière autrefois,
à sen crime attachée est•fière de son choix,
et fille de Léda, Bans peine tu peux croire
qu’à l’exemple d’Hélène elle en fera sa gloire; »

 

 
Népomucène Lemercier (21 april 1771 – 7 juni 1840) 
Agamemnon kijkt toe terwijl Achilles de prijs van wijsheid presenteert aan Nestor tijdens de begrafenisgames. Geschilderd door Michel Martin Drolling, ca. 1810

 

De Columbiaanse dichteres Meira Delmar (eig. Olga Isabel Chams Eljach) werd geboren in Barranquilla op 21 april 1922. Zie ook alle tags voor Meira Delmar op dit blog.

 

Mediodía

Canta la luz aire arriba
como una alondra.
Y por la rama de su canto sube
el mediodía.

Quieren los ojos seguirlo
pero no llegan.
Como el amor, el sol,
de tanto, ciega. 

 

 
Meira Delmar (21 april 1922 – 18 maart 2009)

 

Onafhankelijk van geboortedagen:

De Duitse dichter Gerrit Wustmann werd in 1982 in Keulen geboren. Zie ook alle tags voor Gerrit Wustmann op dit blog.

 

briefe
nach seyed ali salehi

schreib briefe an rira
die ein vogel diktiert aus einem käfig
aus seinem käfig heraus
berichtet er der taube vom fliegen
schreib briefe an rira
und warte bis das summen ihres liedes
jenen einen einzigen ton ergibt
schreib briefe an rira
sechzehnmal mit sechzehn versen
falte sie sorgfältig wie deine wimpern
am morgen und reiche sie dem vogel
durch die gitterstäbe
damit er sie
auswendig lernt:
liebe rira
wir singen
ein verworrenes lied

 

 
Gerrit Wustmann (Keulen, 1982)

Peter Schneider, Meira Delmar, Alistair MacLean, Gerrit Wustmann, Népomucène Lemercier

De Duitse schrijver Peter Schneider werd geboren in Lübeck op 21 april 1940. Zie ook alle tags voor Peter Schneider op dit blog.

Uit: Die Lieben meiner Mutter

„Durch die Hilfe von Gisela Deus, die kaum älter ist als ich und die Sütterlinschrift auch nie gelernt hat, wurden die Briefe einer nach dem anderen lesbar. Sie hatte sich jedoch schon als Kind bemüht, die in der fremden Schrift geschriebenen Briefe ihrer Eltern zu entziffern.
Mit zunehmender Neugier las Gisela Deus sich in die Handschrift und den Seelenzustand meiner Mutter ein, aber auch ihr gelang es nicht, alle Wörter zu entschlüsseln. Mit der Zeit entwickelte sie eine Art Jagdinstinkt, der sie trieb, der Suche nach einem fraglichen Wort, einem Halbsatz so lange zu folgen, bis ihr die Lösung zufiel. Wenn sie nicht weiterkam, so erklärte sie, habe sie sich manchmal einen Kaffee gemacht, den Fernseher angeschaltet oder sei einkaufen gegangen. Aber die ganze Zeit über sei sie, ohne es zu wollen, in Gedanken zu der fraglichen Passage zurückgekehrt. Und plötzlich
sei die Lösung vor ihrem inneren Auge gestanden.
Meistens habe ihr nur die Einfühlung in die Diktion und den Seelenzustand meiner Mutter weitergeholfen. Sie wunderte sich, warum ich mir nie die Mühe gemacht hatte, der sie sich unterzog. Wenn ich nur gewollt hätte, meinte sie, hätte auch ich die Briefe lesen können.
Die Übersetzerin der Briefe meiner Mutter wurde im Lauf der Monate und Jahre zu einer unentbehrlichen Gesprächspartnerin. Anfangs rätselten wir gemeinsam nur über das eine oder andere unleserliche Wort.
Später ging es immer mehr um die Bedeutung eines ganzen Satzes, um seine Einordnung in den Kontext, um die Persönlichkeit der Verfasserin. Gisela Deus geriet immer mehr in den Sog der Briefe, sie lebte mit ihnen und begann sich mit der Verfasserin zu identifizieren.
Sie war angerührt von der melancholischen Grundmelodie der Briefe und von der Schönheit der Sätze, die meine Mutter für ihre Stimmungen gefunden hatte. Manchmal, so gestand sie mir, wenn sie im Wind auf einem kalten S-Bahnhof stand, fiel ihr eine Passage aus einem der zuletzt übersetzten Briefe ein und jagte ihr eine Gänsehaut über den Rücken. Sie wurde zu einer Anwältin meiner Mutter und verteidigte den einen oder anderen Brief gegen meine Lesart.“

 


Peter Schneider (Lübeck, 21 april 1940)

 

De Columbiaanse dichteres Meira Delmar (eig. Olga Isabel Chams Eljach) werd geboren in Barranquilla op 21 april 1922. Zie ook alle tags voor Meira Delmar op dit blog.

 

Solitude

There’s nothing like this bliss
of feeling so alone
in mid-afternoon
and in the middle of the wheat field;
under the summer sky
and in the arms of the wind
I am one more ear of wheat.

I have nothing in my soul,
not even a small sorrow,
nor an old remembrance
that would make me dream . . .
I only have this bliss
of being alone in the afternoon,
just with the afternoon!

A very long silence
is falling on the field,
for already the sun is leaving
and already the wind is leaving;
who would give me forever
this inexpressible bliss
of being, alone and serene,
a miracle of peace!

 

Vertaald door Nicolás Suescún

 


Meira Delmar (21 april 1922 – 18 maart 2009)

 

De Schotse schrijver Alistair Stuart MacLean werd geboren op 21 april 1922 in Glasgow. Zie ook alle tags voor Alistair MacLean op dit blog.

Uit: The Golden Gate

“The operation had to be executed with a surgically military precision marked with a meticulousness that matched, in degree if not in scope, the Allied landings in wartime Europe. It was. The preparations had to be made in total stealth and secrecy. They were. A split-second co-ordination had to be achieved. It was. All the men had to be rehearsed and trained, over and over again until they played their parts perfectly and automatically. They were so trained. Every eventuality, every possible departure from the planned campaign had to be catered for. It was. And their confidence in their ability to carry out their plan, irrespective of reversals and departures from the norm, had to be total. It was. Confidence was a quality exuded by their leader, Peter Branson. Branson was thirty-eight years old, just under six feet tall, strongly built, with black hair, pleasant features, lips that were curved in an almost perpetual smile and light blue eyes that had forgotten how to smile many years ago. He was dressed in a policeman’s uniform but he was not a policeman. Neither was any of the eleven men with them in that disused trucker’s garage not far from the banks of Lake Merced, halfway between Daly City to the south and San Francisco to the north, although three were attired in the same uniform as Branson.
The single vehicle there looked sadly out of place in what was, in effect, nothing more than an open-ended shed. It was a bus, but barely, by normal standards, qualified for the term. It was an opulently gleaming monster which above shoulder level was composed, except for the stainless-steel crossover struts, entirely of slightly tinted glass. There was no regular seating as such. There were about thirty swivel chairs, anchored to the floor but scattered seemingly at random, with deep armrests and aircraft-type swing-out dining-tables housed in each armrest. Towards the rear there was a cloakroom and a remarkably well-stocked bar. Beyond that there was a rear observation deck, the floor of which had for the moment been removed to reveal the cavernous baggage department. This was filled to near capacity but not with baggage. This enormous storage space, seven and a half feet wide by the same in length, held, among other things, two petrol-driven electric generators, two twenty-inch searchlights, a variety of smaller ones, two very peculiar-looking missile-like weapons with mounting tripods, machine-pistols, a large crated unmarked wooden box, four smaller wooden boxes, and a variety of other items of material, conspicuous among which were large coils of rope.”

 


Alistair MacLean (28 april 1922 – 2 februari 1987)
In 1960

 

De Franse dichter en schrijver Népomucène Lemercier werd geboren op 21 april 1771 in Parijs. Zie ook alle tags voor Népomucène Lemercier op dit blog.

Uit: Agamemnon

«AGAMEMNON: Les golplies du Bosphore et les fies cl’AEgée aux pieds du mont Athos la Thrace interrogée, la florissante Épire, et Corinthe, et Délos, Athènes, que la nier vient laver de ses flots, ignorent de quels vents sa flotte fut poussée; même on dit que Pallas, dans Pergame offensée venge sur tous les Grecs son temple ensanglanté, et les livre au trident de Neptune irrité. Des débris des vainqueurs l’onde au loin est couverte; déjà du grand Ajax et du fils de Laërte, l’un est errant, captif, dans des pays déserts, l’autre , atteint de la foudre , a péri clans les mers. En proie au même sort, Agamemnon sans doute t’épargneral’instant que ta haine redoute, et sa mort te livrant.Micène et tous ses droits, met dans tes mains sa veuve et le sceptre des rois. •
ÉGISTE: Sa mort, ou son retour, que tu crois si funeste doit peu m’épouvanter : je suis fils de Thieste.
PALLENE: Egiste , je t’entends; c’est, témoigner assez combien à-son trépas tes voeux intéressés….
ÉGISTE: S’il n’est plus, je reprends tous mes droits à l’empire; s’il rentre dans Argos….
PALLENE: eh bien? parle…..
ÉGISEE: il expire. Ma ‘vengeance Pattend la mort est sous ses pas.
PALLENE: D’un projet si hardi tu ne frémirois pas?
ÉGISTE. Je frémis du repos où languit ma colère, des cris qu’ont exhalés les mànes de mon père, de ce nom emprunté qui cache dans ces lieux tous une humble infortune Égiste furieux. PALLENE: Ainsi L’opinion que nos soins ont nourrie ne voit toujours en toi qu’un prince d’Illyrie , et le nom de Plexippe?…
ÉGISTE:. Oui l’allène , ce nom trompa jusqu’aujourd’hui la cour d’Agamemnon. Te dirai-je , combien révoltant mon courage , cette lente imposture est pénible à ma rage, combien dans ce palais je dévore d’ennuis! … Il est temps qu’un forfait révèle qui je suis.
PALLENE: Ainsi donc tes destins sont inconnus encore.
ÉGISTE: Clitemnestre les sait, le reste les ignore.”

 

 
Népomucène Lemercier (21 april 1771 – 7 juni 1840) 

 

Onafhankelijk van geboortedagen:

De Duitse dichter Gerrit Wustmann werd in 1982 in Keulen geboren. Zie ook alle tags voor Gerrit Wustmann op dit blog.

Uit: Istanbul Bootleg

haci

fiinfrnal täglich schallt
grüne einsamkeit durch die straßen
hallt der gebetsruf der simitçi trifft
auf stumme katzenpfoten
auf alte schleifwerkzeuge
und die kälte die kälte
unter der haut die kälte
einer grünen dir

 

tater beyi

winken weißer hände wo
nichts ist und niemals etwas war
durch die begrünte schlucht in der
man sich nie mehr begegnen wird

durch das loch
im küchenfußboden
blinzelt der himmel

der bauzaun wird abgebrochen
oberflächenfotografie der fassade
der schutt ist abgetragen die leere
zugestellt mit glasfassaden jetzt
geht der blick durch hölzerne gitter
trifft sich im kleinsten gemeinsamen grün

 

 
Gerrit Wustmann (Keulen, 1982)

Charlotte Brontë, Patrick Rambaud, John Mortimer, Charles den Tex, Michael Mann, Peter Schneider, Meira Delmar, Alistair MacLean, Gerrit Wustmann

 De Britse schrijfster Charlotte Brontë werd geboren in Thornton op 21 april 1816. Zie ook alle tags voor Charlotte Brontë op dit blog.

Uit: Villette

“In the autumn of the year  —  —  I was staying at Bretton; my godmother having come in person to claim me of the kinsfolk with whom was at that time fixed my permanent residence. I believe she then plainly saw events coming, whose very shadow I scarce guessed; yet of which the faint suspicion sufficed to impart unsettled sadness, and made me glad to change scene and society.
Time always flowed smoothly for me at my godmother’s side; not with tumultuous swiftness, but blandly, like the gliding of a full river through a plain. My visits to her resembled the sojourn of Christian and Hopeful beside a certain pleasant stream, with “green trees on each bank, and meadows beautified with lilies all the year round.” The charm of variety there was not, nor the excitement of incident; but I liked peace so well, and sought stimulus so little, that when the latter came I almost felt it a disturbance, and wished rather it had still held aloof.
One day a letter was received of which the contents evidently caused Mrs. Bretton surprise and some concern. I thought at first it was from home, and trembled, expecting I know not what disastrous communication: to me, however, no reference was made, and the cloud seemed to pass.
The next day, on my return from a long walk, I found, as I entered my bedroom, an unexpected change. In, addition to my own French bed in its shady recess, appeared in a corner a small crib, draped with white; and in addition to my mahogany chest of drawers, I saw a tiny rosewood chest. I stood still, gazed, and considered.
“Of what are these things the signs and tokens?” I asked. The answer was obvious. “A second guest is coming: Mrs. Bretton expects other visitors.”
On descending to dinner, explanations ensued. A little girl, I was told, would shortly be my companion: the daughter of a friend and distant relation of the late Dr. Bretton’s. This little girl, it was added, had recently lost her mother; though, indeed, Mrs. Bretton ere long subjoined, the loss was not so great as might at first appear.

 

 
Charlotte Brontë (21 april 1816 – 31 maart 1855)
Cover

Lees verder “Charlotte Brontë, Patrick Rambaud, John Mortimer, Charles den Tex, Michael Mann, Peter Schneider, Meira Delmar, Alistair MacLean, Gerrit Wustmann” →

Charlotte Brontë, Patrick Rambaud, John Mortimer, Charles den Tex, Michael Mann, Peter Schneider, Gerrit Wustmann

De Britse schrijfster Charlotte Brontë werd geboren in Thornton op 21 april 1816. Zie ook alle tags voor Charlotte Brontë op dit blog.

Uit: Jane Eyre

“Wake! wake!” I cried. I shook him, but he only murmured and turned: the smoke had stupefied him. Not a moment could be lost: the very sheets were kindling, I rushed to his basin and ewer; fortunately, one was wide and the other deep, and both were filled with water. I heaved them up, deluged the bed and its occupant, flew back to my own room, brought my own water-jug, baptized the couch afresh, and, by God’s aid, succeeded in extinguishing the flames which were devouring it.
The hiss of the quenched element, the breakage of a pitcher which I flung from my hand when I had emptied it, and, above all, the splash of the shower-bath I had liberally bestowed, roused Mr. Rochester at last. Though it was now dark, I knew he was awake; because I heard him fulminating strange anathemas at finding himself lying in a pool of water.
“Is there a flood?” he cried.
“No, sir,” I answered; “but there has been a fire: get up, do; you are quenched now; I will fetch you a candle.”
“In the name of all the elves in Christendom, is that Jane Eyre?” he demanded. “What have you done with me, witch, sorceress? Who is in the room besides you? Have you plotted to drown me?”
“I will fetch you a candle, sir; and, in Heaven’s name, get up. Somebody has plotted something: you cannot too soon find out who and what it is.”
“There! I am up now; but at your peril you fetch a candle yet: wait two minutes till I get into some dry garments, if any dry there be–yes, here is my dressing-gown. Now run!”
I did run; I brought the candle which still remained in the gallery. He took it from my hand, held it up, and surveyed the bed, all blackened and scorched, the sheets drenched, the carpet round swimming in water.
“What is it? and who did it?” he asked. I briefly related to him what had transpired: the strange laugh I had heard in the gallery: the step ascending to the third storey; the smoke,–the smell of fire which had conducted me to his room; in what state I had found matters there, and how I had deluged him with all the water I could lay hands on.”

 

 
Charlotte Brontë (21 april 1816 – 31 maart 1855)
Mia Wasikowska als Jane Eyre in de gelijknamige film uit 2011

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Charlotte Brontë, Michael Mann, Patrick Rambaud, John Mortimer, Peter Schneider, Gerrit Wustmann

De Britse schrijfster Charlotte Brontë werd geboren in Thornton op 21 april 1816. Zie ook alle tags voor Charlotte Brontë op dit blog.

Uit: The Correspondence of Charlotte Brontë

“Charlotte’s reply to Robert Southey
16 March 1837
“SIR, I cannot rest till I have answered your letter, even though by addressing you a second’ time I should appear a little intrusive ; but I must thank you for the kind and wise advice you have condescended to give me. I had not ventured to hope for such a reply ; so considerate in its tone, so noble in its spirit. I must suppress what I feel, or you will think me foolishly enthusiastic-
At the first perusal of your letter I felt only shame and regret that I had ever ventured to trouble you with my crude rhapsody ; I felt a painful heat rise to my face when I thought of the quires of paper I had covered with what once gave me so much delight, but which now was only a source of confusion ; but after I had thought a little, and read it again and again, the prospect seemed to clear. You do not forbid me to write ; you do not say that what I write is utterly destitute of merit. You only warn me against the folly of neglecting real duties for the sake of imaginative pleasures ; of writing for the love of fame ; for the selfish excitement of emulation. You kindly allow me to write poetry for its own sake, provided I leave undone nothing which I ought to do, in order to fureue that single, absorbing, exquisite gratification, I am afraid, sir, you think me very foolish. I know the first letter I wrote to you was all senseless trash from beginning to end ; but I am not altogether the idle dreaming being it would seem to denote. My father is a clergyman of limited though competent income, and I am the eldest of his children. He expended quite as much in my education as he could afford in justice to the rest. I thought it therefore my duty, when I left school, to become a governess. In that capacity I find enough to occupy my thoughts all day long, and my head and hands too, without  having a moment’s time for one dream of the imagination. In the evenings, I confess, I do think, but I never trouble any one else with my thoughts. I carefully avoid any appearance of pre- occupation and eccentricity, which might lead those I live amongst to suspect the nature of my pursuits. Following my father’s advice who from my childhood has counselled me, just in the wise and friendly tone of your letter I have endeavoured not only attentively to observe all the duties a woman ought to fulfil, but to feel deeply interested in them. I don’t always succeed, for sometimes when I’m teaching or sewing I would rather be reading or writing ; but I try to deny myself ; and my father’s approbation amply rewarded me for the privation.
Once more allow me to thank you with sincere gratitude. I trust I shall never more feel ambitious to see my name in print ; if the wish should rise, I’ll look at Southey’s letter, and suppress it. It is honour enough for me that I have written to him, and received an answer. That letter is consecrated ; no one shall ever see it but papa and my brother and sisters. Again I thank you. This incident, I suppose, will be renewed no more ; if I live to be an old woman, I shall remember it thirty years hence as a bright dream. The signature which you suspected of being fictitious is my real name.

Again, therefore, I must sign myself  C. BRONTE.”

 

 
Charlotte Brontë (21 april 1816 – 31 maart 1855)
Op een Engelse poster

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Charlotte Brontë, Michael Mann, Patrick Rambaud, John Mortimer, Gerrit Wustmann

De Britse schrijfster Charlotte Brontë werd geboren in Thornton op 21 april 1816. Zie ook alle tags voor Charlotte Brontë op dit blog.

Uit: Shirley

“I allude to a rushing backwards and forwards, amongst themselves, to and from their respective lodgings: not a round–but a triangle of visits, which they keep up all the year through, in winter, spring, summer, and autumn. Season and weather make no difference; with unintelligible zeal they dare snow and hail, wind and rain, mire and dust, to go and dine, or drink tea, or sup with each other. What attracts them, it would be difficult to say. It is not friendship; for whenever they meet they quarrel. It is not religion; the thing is never named amongst them: theology they may discuss occasionally, but piety–never. It is not the love of eating and drinking: each might have as good a joint and pudding, tea as potent, and toast as succulent, at his own lodgings, as is served to him at his brother’s. Mrs. Gale, Mrs. Hogg, and Mrs. Whipp–their respective landladies–affirm that “it is just for nought else but to give folk trouble.” By “folk,” the good ladies of course mean themselves; for indeed they are kept in a continual “fry” by this system of mutual invasion.
Mr. Donne and his guests, as I have said, are at dinner; Mrs. Gale waits on them, but a spark of the hot kitchen fire is in her eye. She considers that the privilege of inviting a friend to a meal occasionally, without additional charge (a privilege included in the terms on which she lets her lodgings), has been quite sufficiently exercised of late. The present week is yet but at Thursday, and on Monday, Mr. Malone, the curate of Briarfield, came to breakfast and stayed dinner; on Tuesday, Mr. Malone and Mr. Sweeting of Nunnely, came to tea, remained to supper, occupied the spare bed, and favoured her with their company to breakfast on Wednesday morning; now, on Thursday, they are both here at dinner, and she is almost certain they will stay all night. “C’en est trop,” she would say, if she could speak French. »

 

 
Charlotte Brontë (21 april 1816 – 31 maart 1855)
Cover

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Charlotte Brontë, Michael Mann, Patrick Rambaud, John Mortimer, Gerrit Wustmann

De Britse schrijfster Charlotte Brontë werd geboren in Thornton op 21 april 1816. Zie ook alle tags voor Charlotte Brontë op dit blog.

Uit: The Correspondence of Charlotte Brontë

“Charlotte’s reply to Robert Southey
16 March 1837

Sir—… At the first perusal of your letter I felt only shame and regret that I had ever ventured to trouble you with my crude rhapsody; I felt a painful heat rise to my face when I thought of the quires of paper I had covered with what once gave me so much delight, but which now was only a source of confusion; but after I had thought a little, and read it again and again, the prospect seemed to clear. You do not forbid me to write. You only warn me against the folly of neglecting real duties for the sake of imaginative pleasures; of writing for the love of fame… You kindly allow me to write poetry for its own sake, provided I leave undone nothing which I ought to do, in order to pursue that single, absorbing, exquisite gratification. . .
Following my father’s advice—who from my childhood has counselled me, just in the wise and friendly tone of your letter—I have endeavoured not only attentively to observe all the duties a woman ought to fulfill, but to feel deeply interested in them. I don’t always succeed, for sometimes when I’m teaching or sewing I would rather be reading or writing; but I try to deny myself; and my father’s approbation amply rewarded me for the privation. Once more allow me to thank you with sincere gratitude. I trust I shall never more feel ambitious to see my name in print; if the wish should rise, I’ll look at Southey’s letter, and suppress it.”

 

Charlotte Brontë (21 april 1816 – 31 maart 1855)
Portret door haar broer Patrick Branwell Brontë

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