Intimations of Immortality
Bussard, Paul
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY By PAUL BUSSARD ON AN afternoon Pierrot and Columbine sat beneath a tree. About them the countryside lay claim and quiet beneath the beat of the sun. As they sat in...
...Once someone remembered he had been born, busied his mind with the implements of poetry, wrote something about immortality being intimated by his memories of birth, mentioned the clouds of glory that trailed after him from birth...
...You see it is so big and when this time of day comes you become conscious of boredom, of that slight ache...
...Pierrot smiled...
...Somehow one is a stranger in his own house...
...and on occasion he smiled at the nature of man able to amuse itself with such a simple toy...
...She gazed at the man as he walked rapidly along the brook's path...
...It needs filling...
...I daresay that explains why you sit where you are listening to Columbine playing out of tune...
...Whatever you think of, you can think of more...
...Want everything and you want more...
...Our trouble lies not with the sun but with ourselves—that we are so insatiable...
...A distaste for one's self...
...Nothing I have, nothing I can imagine having...
...One can want to do things in the morning...
...Who wants to do anything afternoons...
...One should sleep, I see, or become quickly drunken...
...The man glared at Pierrot who was looking intently at the progress of a bug through the blades of grass, and then at Columbine who quickly bent her graceful head as she plucked a string...
...My friend," said the man, "this time of day I cannot tolerate...
...There is the sun that usually sets...
...A slight pain and yet no—" "The feeling's so empty you can't say it in words...
...But you should know really what you want...
...Any time of night, any time of the day near the night is not impossible...
...An indeterminate desire...
...However, it produces strange activities...
...And he smiled faintly as he said, "—even in this company...
...His memory was of a child whose feet were heavy with glory...
...As Pierrot lay with his elbows on the ground and his chin cupped in his hands he saw the figure of a man approaching them...
...As the three of them sat in the purple patches the only sound in the warm stillness was the occasional tinkle of the lute, Columbine listening judiciously...
...One can dream after it's gone...
...As it swayed uncertainly there, Pierrot continued, "An inanity so inane one cannot speak of it will furnish but a meagre topic to talk about...
...It is unbearable...
...Well," said the man resignedly, "after the preachment, what does my enormity crave...
...From his peculiar position on the ground the man appeared to be a creature composed mainly of legs...
...An emptiness—a feeling of futility," mused Pierrot...
...The walker did not so much as glance at the bird, nor did he glance at Pierrot or Columbine, nor offer a word of greeting as he sat down with his back to the tree...
...Even her immelody fills the emptiness of your mind—does it not...
...But look at it now, and feel the thickness of this silence...
...Well, if it does...
...Did you never notice that such a time you cannot bear to be alone with yourself...
...One can think of things in the evening...
...Eheu, it wants something...
...Very quiet," said Pierrot...
...Pierrot lay on his stomach with his chin resting on his hands, amusing himself and mystifying Columbine with quaint witticisms and learned historical observations on the origin of the lute, the remarkable uses people in sundry places had made of it...
...Of a sudden a meadow lark, startled by the stride of the booted man, flew up with a loud angry whir of wings...
...At any rate you see him walking toward the source of the stream," said Pierrot, and at once he was casting about in his mind for an image that would adequately describe the little animal tottering at the top of the green stem...
...I was just going to express it," said Pierrot as he helped the bug to the top of a blade of grass...
...A longing for something unknown...
...Why should you not say you become conscious of how big your mind is—how much it wants fillment...
...I should be asleep...
...A restlessness and yet no desire to do anything definite...
...I think," remonstrated Columbine as she put the lute from her, "that you are becoming excessively surface-like, Pierrot...
...Afternoon, bah...
...Dotards go to sleep...
...When Pierrot grew weary and fell to thinking without speech, Columbine would begin chattering in a charming voice of little these and thats which concerned no one in particular and to which Pierrot paid not the slightest attention...
...I do entreat you stop not your mouth...
...The light of the sun coming slowly through the leaves of the tree made little patches of purple on the grass about them and on the white hands of Columbine as they moved nervously about the instrument...
...Early afternoons I've longed for something and I cannot find what it is...
...I will cure your restlessness if you will understand why you are restless...
...There's the sun that rises...
...The tale is now of a man who has constantly been intimated of immortality by ennui of early afternoon, who frets because he is being led forth to face the something which recognized will render fretting a pastime passe...
...Pierrot had the hallucination of seeing the giant with seven-league boots coming swinging over the hills...
...said Pierrot, and when the man turned from looking at the horizon he saw Pierrot's head in the grass...
...As they sat in the shade of the tree Columbine amused herself with restringing an ancient lute curious in contour...
...Soon it shall be filled...
...The happy creature fell from the top of the stem," he said smiling, and he went on paying his attention to the clambering bug as he spoke to the man with Columbine...
...It was Pierrot's custom to speak thus, and Columbine had long since given up an endeavor to understand him, although she hoped, by her judicious air and discreet silence to convey the impression of great wisdom...
...The purple patches moved over Pierrot's left hand as he gestured slightly upward, "God...
...An impatience with all things...
...Oh...
...I wish you'd stop...
...Do you cram this world down your throat, your mouth still is open...
Vol. 12 • July 1930 • No. 13
