Henryk is speaking: A man can do so very little and all too much. . .
On a night like this he cannot overcome himself, cannot fill up his depths with sand. Even if there be filth, even if there be miry sin. . .
And he could annihilate a thousand beings like himself: with fire, with a bloody fist, with iron.
We are here, but far to the east. . .
Without end the winds whip across this plateau so you can’t hear the advance.
But when I look out at the dark horizons, I know thence the tempest comes. Along the roads heavy artillery will rumble and the hooves of the horde will thunder.
Savages may come from the east and in the still of night set the heavens aflame. Our towns will lie in ruins on unhappy lakes, from our villages only cinders will remain.
And blood!. . . so much blood. . .
A man can do that. . . Too much! too much!
And a man can do so little…
He won’t fend off the madness that with hurried steps draws nearer.
He won’t overcome his fear of the Unknown . . .
He stopped, breaking off midsentence.
The dreadful silence of anticipation.
A shout ripped through the air:
“ A c t e u r t r a g i q u e ! ! ! ! Ha! Ha!”
Who is shouting?
Rage in his heart: Who dare call my anguish an act?!!
His predatory heart is seething, it thirsts for blood. And suddenly Henryk sees that in his abandon lurks madness. . . and he wants to explode. Dread in his heart. . . dread, a chill… How very pale is that which crystallizes thought, having passed through the depths of the soul! And how strong those feelings themselves are!
A furtive thought flickers in the soul, lying in wait for itself—counting the days. It flits past and comes back again. It burrows under the skin, festers, and sprouts up. The thought whispers: What’s it all for? Do you know what all this is for? A fear of madness. . . The horror of the human soul… Consciousness of sinful love. . . The tragic nature of your lack of faith… So many maggots are gnawing at your soul! Stop it. . . Stop it! Enough!
He’s already shouting seductively and fawning like a chimera with tigers’ paws.
A winged prayer resides in the king’s heart. He looks at the Franciscan stained-glass windows and admires them. Rainbows of luminous colors materialize into shapes, lines, and flowers. Thorn bushes had sprung up over their holy heads. Instead of fragrance, heavenly jubilation inhabits the flowers. Heavenly jubilation instead of fragrance. His eyes are so shaded, so illumined by the light of the colors, that they cannot see the dark walls or the soaring ceiling.
Stained-glass windows as though suspended in dark nothingness — celestial apparitions. Especially strange is the one with Saint Francis, Christ’s poor wretch. His pale palms glow — palms on which ruby stigmata ooze blood . . .
The king dreams, losing himself in his fascination. He isn’t dreaming about anything else but Saint Francis’s little flowers, about his love and his beautiful deeds that flower so colorfully on the stained glass.
Happiness inhabits a faith of loving and forgiving.
The saint descends on a beam of sunny luminance from that stained-glass window. And he lifts the king up from his knees and leads him along. They crossed the length of the empty church, toward the organ they go. In the choir the saint points to a bench and tells him, “Sit down, if Thou art not a man.”
The king did not sit but looks at the saint with astonished eyes.
“Look up.”
The king’s otherwise calm soul is bursting apart with hurricanes of rapture; it is intoxicated with eternity. Above him, God the Father Himself in the splendor of power.
“Peel off the riches of Thy garments,” says the saint. “Fall to the dust before Thy Creator and think not. Let Thy soul be humbled in the dust lest a rebellious thought creep forth from Thy brain.”
The king, obedient to the words of the wellspring of faith and love, casts off his velvets and white silk. He is left naked in the choir; only on the wrist of his left hand a gold chain jingles and glistens.
The wretch of the Lord Jesus did utter,“Into the dust! Humble Thyself, if Thou be a man!”
“And you?”
“I am going to the orchard, to the golden honeybees and the azure sky,” smiled the luminous shadow.
Amazement again in the royal eyes. But Francis explains the matter; with a gentle gesture of his pale hands he marks off the difference: “Thou, a man, must pray. But I am holy.”
And he left him on his own.
The Story of the Paper Crown is out now with Sublunary Editions.
Józef Czechowicz (1903 – 1939) was a Polish poet, playwright, and critic from Lublin, Poland. He made his literary debut with The Story of the Paper Crown in 1923, and would go on to publish eight volumes of poetry before being killed during the early days of World War II. Czechowicz, who lived openly as a homosexual, is still considered one of the greatest Polish poets of the twentieth century and one of the main proponents of the literary avant-garde.
Writer and translator Frank Garrett lives in Dallas and is essays editor at Minor Literature[s]. Website: Frank Garrett Online
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