At first it had no name. It was the thing itself, the vivid thing. It was his friend. On windy days it danced, demented, waving wild arms, or in the silence of evening drowsed and dreamed, swaying in the blue, the goldeny air. Even at night it did not go away. Wrapped in his truckle bed, he could hear it stirring darkly outside in the dark, all the long night long. There were others, nearer to him, more vivid still than this, they came and went, talking, but they were wholly familiar, almost a part of himself, while it, steadfast and aloof, belonged to the mysterious outside, to the wind and the weather and the goldeny blue air. It was part of the world, and yet it was his friend.
Look, Nicolas, look! See the big tree!
Tree. That was its name. And also: the linden. They were nice words. He had known them a long time before he knew what they meant. They did not mean themselves, they were nothing in themselves, they meant the dancing singing thing outside. In wind, in silence, at night, in the changing air, it changed and yet was changelessly the tree, the linden tree. That was strange.
Everything had a name, but although every name was nothing without the thing named, the thing cared nothing for its name, had no need of a name, and was itself only. And then there were the names that signified no substantial thing, as linden and tree signified that dark dancer. His mother asked him who did he love the best. Love did not dance, nor tap the window with frantic fingers, love had no leafy arms to shake, yet when she spoke that name that named nothing, some impalpable but real thing within him responded as if to a summons, as if it had heard its name spoken. That was very strange.
He soon forgot about these enigmatic matters, and learned to talk as others talked, full of conviction, unquestioningly.
The sky is blue, the sun is gold, the linden tree is green. Day is light, it ends, night falls, and then it is dark. You sleep, and in the morning wake again. But a day will come when you will not wake. That is death. Death is sad. Sadness is what happiness is not. And so on. How simple it all was, after all! There was no need even to think about it. He had only to be, and life would do the rest, would send day to follow day until there were no days left, for him, and then he would go to Heaven and be an angel. Hell was under the ground.
Matthew Mark Luke and John
Bless the bed that I lie on
If I die before I wake
Ask holy God my soul to take
He peered from behind clasped hands at his mother kneeling beside him in the candlelight. Under a burnished coif of coiled hair her face was pale and still, like the face of the Madonna in the picture. Her eyes were closed, and her lips moved, mouthing mutely the pious lines as he recited them aloud. When he stumbled on the hard words she bore him up gently, in a wonderfully gentle voice. He loved her the best, he said. She rocked him in her arms and sang a song.
See saw Margery Daw
This little chicken
Got lost in the straw
Isprva nije imalo ime. Bilo je stvar za sebe, živopisna stvar. Bilo mu je prijatelj. Za vjetrovitih je dana plesalo, pomahnitalo mašući neobuzdanim rukama, a na večernjoj tišini kunjalo i sanjalo njišući se na plavom, zlatastom zraku. Nije odlazilo čak ni noću. Ugniježđen u svojem krevetu na razvlačenje čuo bi ga kako se tmurno meškolji vani u tami, beskrajno dugo u noć. Bilo je i drugih, bližih, još i živopisnijih od njegova; dolazila su i odlazila, razgovarala, ali bila su mu sasvim poznata, gotovo kao da su dio njega, dok je to, odmjereno i uzdržano, pripadalo tajanstvenoj vanjštini, vjetru i vremenu i zlatastom plavom zraku. Bilo je dijelom svijeta, a opet mu je bilo prijateljem.
Gle, Nicolase, gle! Pogledaj veliko stablo!
Stablo. Tako se zvalo. Također se zvalo lipa. Bile su to lijepe riječi. Doznao ih je mnogo prije negoli je shvatio što znače. Same po sebi nisu imale značenje, ništa nisu označavale, predstavljale su rasplesanu i raspjevanu stvar u dvorištu. Na vjetru, u tišini i noći, na prevrtljivom zraku mijenjalo se, a opet je nepromjenjivo bilo stablom, lipovim stablom. To je bilo čudno.
Sve je imalo svoje ime, no premda je svako ime bilo beznačajno bez onoga što je imenovalo, stvar nije marila za svoje ime, nije ga trebala i bila je naprosto ono što jest. Zatim su postojala imena koja nisu označavala ništa određeno, kao što su lipa i stablo označavali tog mračnog plesača. Majka ga je upitala koga najviše voli. Ljubav nije plesala, niti je bjesomučnim prstima kucala o prozor, ljubav nije imala lisnate ruke kojima bi mlatila, a opet, kada bi izgovorila to ime koje nije ništa imenovalo, nešto neopipljivo ali stvarno u njemu odgovorilo bi kao na poziv, kao da je čulo dozivanje svojeg imena. To je bilo vrlo čudno.
Uskoro je zaboravio na ta zagonetna pitanja i naučio govoriti kao što govore svi ostali; prepuno uvjerenja i ne postavljajući pitanja.
Nebo je plavo, sunce je zlatno, a lipino stablo zeleno. Dan je svijetao, a po njegovu svršetku pada noć, i tada je mračno. Spavate i jutrom se iznova budite. No svanut će dan kada se nećete probuditi. To je smrt. Smrt je tužna. Tuga je ono što sreća nije. I tako dalje. Na kraju krajeva, sve je bilo vrlo jednostavno! Nije bilo potrebe uopće razmišljati o tome. Trebao je tek biti, a život će odraditi sve ostalo, slat će dan za danom sve dok mu ne preostane više niti jedan dan, a zatim će otići u raj i postati anđelom. Pakao je pod zemljom.
Matija, Marko, Luka i Ivan
Blagoslovite moj meki divan
Ako umrem prije buđenja
Spasite mi dušu od suđenja
Povirio je onkraj sklopljenih dlanova prema majci dok je klečala pokraj njega na svjetlu svijeća. Ispod sjajnog pokrova kovrčave kose lice joj je bilo blijedo i spokojno, nalik licu Bogorodice na slici. Oči su joj bile sklopljene, a njezine se usne pomicale, nijemo izgovarajući pobožne retke dok ih je on naglas recitirao. Kada bi zapeo na teškim riječima nježno bi ga potaknula, predivno blagim glasom. Nju je najviše volio, rekao je. Njihala ga je u naručju i pjevala mu pjesmicu.
Haj-ho, dođi mami
Maleno se pile
Izgubilo u slami