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THE MADNESS OF ANDELSPRUTZ
I first saw the city of Andelsprutz on an afternoon in spring. The day was
full of sunshine as I came by the way of the fields, and all that morning
I had said, "There will be sunlight on it when I see for the first time
the beautiful conquered city whose fame has so often made for me lovely
dreams." Suddenly I saw its fortifications lifting out of the fields, and
behind them stood its belfries. I went in by a gate and saw its houses and
streets, and a great disappointment came upon me. For there is an air
about a city, and it has a way with it, whereby a man may recognized one
from another at once. There are cities full of happiness and cities full
of pleasure, and cities full of gloom. There are cities with their faces
to heaven, and some with their faces to earth; some have a way of looking
at the past and others look at the future; some notice you if you come
among them, others glance at you, others let you go by. Some love the
cities that are their neighbours, others are dear to the plains and to the
heath; some cities are bare to the wind, others have purple cloaks and
others brown cloaks, and some are clad in white. Some tell the old tale of
their infancy, with others it is secret; some cities sing and some mutter,
some are angry, and some have broken hearts, and each city has her way of
greeting Time.
I had said: "I will see Andelsprutz arrogant with her beauty," and I had
said: "I will see her weeping over her conquest."
- I had said
- "She will sing songs to me," and "she will be reticent," "she
will be all robed," and "she will be bare but splendid."
But the windows of Andelsprutz in her houses looked vacantly over the
plains like the eyes of a dead madman. At the hour her chimes sounded
unlovely and discordant, some of them were out of tune, and the bells of
some were cracked, her roofs were bald and without moss. At evening no
pleasant rumour arose in her streets. When the lamps were lit in the
houses no mystical flood of light stole out into the dusk, you merely saw
that there were lighted lamps; Andelsprutz had no way with her and no air
about her. When the night fell and the blinds were all drawn down, then I
perceived what I had not thought in the daylight. I knew then that
Andelsprutz was dead.
I saw a fair-haired man who drank beer in a café, and I said to him:
"Why is the city of Andelsprutz quite dead, and her soul gone hence?"
- He answered
- "Cities do not have souls and there is never any life in
bricks."
And I said to him: "Sir, you have spoken truly."
And I asked the same question of another man, and he gave me the same
answer, and I thanked him for his courtesy. And I saw a man of a more
slender build, who had black hair, and channels in his cheeks for tears to
run in, and I said to him:
"Why is Andelsprutz quite dead, and when did her soul go hence?"
- And he answered
- "Andelsprutz hoped too much. For thirty years would she
stretch out her arms toward the land of Akla every night, to Mother Akla
from whom she had been stolen. Every night she would be hoping and
sighing, and stretching out her arms to Mother Akla. At midnight, once a
year, on the anniversary of the terrible day, Akla would send spies to lay
a wreath against the walls of Andelsprutz. She could do no more. And on
this night, once in every year, I used to weep, for weeping was the mood
of the city that nursed me. Every night while other cities slept did
Andelsprutz sit brooding here and hoping, till thirty wreaths lay
mouldering by her walls, and still the armies of Akla could not come.
"But after she had hoped so long, and on the night that faithful spies had
brought her thirtieth wreath, Andelsprutz went suddenly mad. All the bells
clanged hideously in the belfries, horses bolted in the streets, the dogs
all howled, the stolid conquerors awoke and turned in their beds and slept
again; and I saw the grey shadowy form of Andelsprutz rise up, decking her
hair with the phantasms of cathedrals, and stride away from her city. And
the great shadowy form that was the soul of Andelsprutz went away
muttering to the mountains, and there I followed her--for had she not been
my nurse? Yes, I went away alone into the mountains, and for three days,
wrapped in a cloak, I slept in their misty solitudes. I had no food to
eat, and to drink I had only the water of the mountain streams. By day no
living thing was near to me, and I heard nothing but the noise of the
wind, and the mountain streams roaring. But for three nights I heard all
round me on the mountain the sounds of a great city: I saw the lights of
tall cathedral windows flash momentarily on the peaks, and at times the
glimmering lantern of some fortress patrol. And I saw the huge misty
outline of the soul of Andelsprutz sitting decked with her ghostly
cathedrals, speaking to herself, with her eyes fixed before her in a mad
stare, telling of ancient wars. And her confused speech for all those
nights upon the mountain was sometimes the voice of traffic, and then of
church bells, and then of bugles, but oftenest it was the voice of red
war; and it was all incoherent, and she was quite mad.
"The third night it rained heavily all night long, but I stayed up there
to watch the soul of my native city. And she still sat staring straight
before her, raving; but here voice was gentler now, there were more chimes
in it, and occasional song. Midnight passed, and the rain still swept down
on me, and still the solitudes of the mountain were full of the mutterings
of the poor mad city. And the hours after midnight came, the cold hours
wherein sick men die.
"Suddenly I was aware of great shapes moving in the rain, and heard the
sound of voices that were not of my city nor yet of any that I ever knew.
And presently I discerned, though faintly, the souls of a great concourse
of cities, all bending over Andelsprutz and comforting her, and the
ravines of the mountains roared that night with the voices of cities that
had lain still for centuries. For there came the soul of Camelot that had
so long ago forsaken Usk; and there was Ilion, all girt with towers, still
cursing the sweet face of ruinous Helen; I saw there Babylon and
Persepolis, and the bearded face of bull-like Nineveh, and Athens mourning
her immortal gods.
"All these souls if cities that were dead spoke that night on the mountain
to my city and soothed her, until at last she muttered of war no longer,
and her eyes stared wildly no more, but she hid her face in her hands and
for some while wept softly. At last she arose, and walking slowly and with
bended head, and leaning upon Ilion and Carthage, went mournfully
eastwards; and the dust of her highways swirled behind her as she went, a
ghostly dust that never turned to mud in all that drenching rain. And so
the souls of the cities led her away, and gradually they disappeared from
the mountain, and the ancient voices died away in the distance.
"Now since then have I seen my city alive; but once I met with a traveler
who said that somewhere in the midst of a great desert are gathered
together the souls of all dead cities. He said that he was lost once in a
place where there was no water, and he heard their voices speaking all the
night."
- But I said
- "I was once without water in a desert and heard a city
speaking to me, but knew not whether it really spoke to me or not, for on
that day I heard so many terrible things, and only some of them were
true."
And the man with the black hair said: "I believe it to be true, though
whither she went I know not. I only know that a shepherd found me in the
morning faint with hunger and cold, and carried me down here; and when I
came to Andelsprutz it was, as you have perceived it, dead."
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