Cesar Vallejo: a poet of the event Vich

Vi■Ctor
Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmass.com/product/cesar-vallejo-a-poet-of-the-event-vich-victor/
Studies in Revolution and Literature

Series Editors
Bruno Bosteels
Department of Latin American & Iberian Culture, Columbia University,
New York, NY, USA

Joshua Clover
English & Comparative Literature, University of California, Davis, Davis,
CA, USA

This global-focused series seeks to present a set of timely interventions

at the crossover between radical politics—insurrectionary, anarchist,
communist, Marxist—and the writing of literature: poetry, theater, or
the novel, but also blogs, pamphlets, manifestos, and other texts.
Starting from the idea that literature is one area among others in which
people become conscious of and explore surrounding antagonisms, the
editors invite contributions (full-length books, edited collections, and
the shorter form, Pivot) that will address specific structures for
understanding, intensifying, and prolonging revolutionary engagement.
Víctor Vich

César Vallejo
A Poet of the Event
Víctor Vich
Pontificia Universidad Cató lica del Perú , Lima, Perú

Studies in Revolution and Literature

ISBN 978-3-031-33512-9 e-ISBN 978-3-031-33513-6
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-33513-6

Translation from the Spanish language edition: “César Vallejo: Un poeta

del acontecimiento” by Víctor Vich, © 2021. Published by Horizonte and
Prometeo. All Rights Reserved.

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive

license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024

This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively
licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is
concerned, specifically the rights of reprinting, reuse of illustrations,
recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other
physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval,
electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar
methodology now known or hereafter developed.

The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks,

service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the
absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the
relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general
use.

The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the
advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate
at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the
editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the
material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have
been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional
claims in published maps and institutional affiliations.

Cover illustration: Cesar Vallejo. Probably in Berlin, 1928. Detail.

This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered

company Springer Nature Switzerland AG
The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham,
Switzerland
They’ve mistaken me for my cry.
César Vallejo
Your name will be immortal.
—Abraham Valderomar
The fact that we understand and value Vallejo is not a product of
chance. Nor is it a consequence of his genius alone. It is rather a proof
that, along these cosmopolitan and ecumenical paths, which we are so
much criticized for, we are getting closer and closer to ourselves.
—José Carlos Mariá tegui
Vallejo was the beginning and the end.
—José María Arguedas
Acknowledgements
This book is the product of many years of reading César Vallejo’s poetry,
but its structure was forged thanks to the doctoral seminar I gave at the
University of California, Berkeley, between August and December 2014.
It was an intense semester that I always remember. I would like to
thank all the students who attended my seminar, Estelle Tarica and
Ivonne del Valle for the generous welcome they gave me (and the
regular conversations we had), and Giancarlo Cornejo and Gustavo
Campos for their sincere friendship during those months.
In Lima, Nae Hanashiro’s help was indispensable. There were many
mornings when we met to discuss poems and try to analyze them in
detail. I also learned a lot from Marcos Mondoñ edo and Martín Vargas
Canchaya in a seminar on Badiou that they organized at San Marcos
University during the summer of 2017. Juan Carlos Ubilluz generously
read the manuscript and made some sharp observations, both on the
theoretical discussions and on the poems themselves. Thanks to an
invitation from Gladys Flores Heredia, I was able to participate in an
important congress on Vallejo in Salamanca where I met outstanding
Vallejistas from whom I learned a great deal.
I would especially like to thank the “translation team” without
whom this book would never have been available in English: Martin
Scurrah, Cecilia Scurrah, Daniela Wurst and, above all, Virginia Zavala.
William Rowe was a friend and constant interlocutor throughout this
work.
Also, I would like to thank Valentino Gianuzzi for his permanent
answers to my questions and his generous help. His editor, Tony Frazer,
allowed me to use the translations of Vallejo that Valentino made
together with Michael Smith. I am also very grateful to Bruno Bosteels
for his intellectual work, his friendship and his interest in publishing
this book in English.
As José María Arguedas said, we write to try to get out of the
scepticism to which the present world always leads us. There are many,
many more people with whom I have been able to share my passion for
Vallejo. To all of them, to my family, to my friends, to my todavías, my
sincere gratitude.
Praise for César Vallejo
“This book reveals that the political reading of Vallejo’s poetry demands
that we radically rethink politics itself. The singular ethical force of this
poetry resides there. We have to think reality from the excess, that is,
from what does not fit in ideological schematisms, nor in the concepts
themselves. With a great pedagogical spirit, through lucid theoretical
expositions and precise commentaries on the texts, this book shows us
that Vallejo wrote a poetry that is absolutely alive for our times: a
poetry that demands that we live in a different way.”
—William Rowe, Birkbeck College, University of London
“From this careful study, César Vallejo emerges as a poet-witness of
the event, ready to assume the constitutive flaw of the human being but
capable of affirming the radical possibility of a communist politics of
equality. By following the philosophy of Alain Badiou, as well as the
clues of other thinkers (from Marx to Mariá tegui, from Butler to Ž ižek),
Víctor Vich has succeeded in producing an original, new, and other
Vallejo.”
—Bruno Bosteels, Columbia University
Contents
1 Introduction
2 A Poet of the Ethics of the Real
3 A Poet of the Language Crisis
4 A Poet of the “Part With No Part”
5 A Poet Who Announces the Event
6 A Poet of the Communist Event
7 A Poet of Lost Causes
8 Vallejo and Political Art Beyond Death (Conclusions)
List of Analyzed Poems Per Chapter
Spanish Versions of the Analyzed Poems
Bibliography
Index of Authors
Index of Categories
© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024
V. Vich, César Vallejo, Studies in Revolution and Literature
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-33513-6_1

1. Introduction
Víctor Vich1
(1) Pontificia Universidad Cató lica del Perú , Lima, Perú

Víctor Vich
Email: vvich@pucp.pe

Art is not a means of political propaganda, but the supreme

spring of political creation.
César Vallejo.

The image of Vallejo as a poet of pain and loss is insufficient and

incomplete. Vallejo has long been regarded as a poet who writes about
pain and loss, but this picture is incomplete. Vallejo is also a poet who
celebrates his encounter with universal truths, who comes into contact
with something eternal, and who seeks to transform the world. While
his poetry expresses an inherently subjective pain and shows flaws in
how the world is constituted, his verses also bring with them a set of
images from which new possibilities for life could emerge. Vallejo is an
author impacted by the force of the need for justice and human
solidarity. These images are his greatest legacy.
This book analyzes César Vallejo’s poetry and comments on it from
a political perspective. The political here is understood, not as day-to-
day governance, but as a question for the future of the community and,
in that sense, as an interruption, as a disagreement, as a mechanism of
subjectivation, as the attempt to restore the category of “truth” from the
revelation of an “event.” Alan Badiou has sustained the following: “I call
the consequence of an event truth” (2018, 18), emphasizing in addition
that “the statements that carry truth arise in the lack of any social
order” (2009c, 80). An event is the moment of rupture of a given state
of reality, as a fact that alters the logic of an existing situation because it
brings with it a truth that emerges from the “holes” left by the exercise
of power.
In this book, I argue that Vallejo discovers that poetry is a decisive
place to name the event and that his function as a poet (and as a human
being) is to summon it, to speak from this place. Vallejo’s poetry always
confronts us with human pain (generally understood as helplessness,
orphanhood, alienation, injustice, or evil) but, at the same time, many of
his poems seek to channel that negativity into more fertile ground. This
is a poet who always fights with himself, fights with the world and,
above all, fights with language (he works within and outside of
language), but this action of “fighting” is nothing other than the
incessant search for some kind of truth. In fact, the Christian message of
universal solidarity, Marx’s works, the workers’ revolution in Russia at
the beginning of the twentieth century, Mariá tegui’s works in Perú , and
the militant fidelity unleashed throughout Europe by the Spanish Civil
War were all understood by Vallejo as a scenario of political truths that
emerged from a concrete situation and that, nevertheless, went
universally beyond this purely historical juncture.
Thus, I maintain that Vallejo’s is a poetry of the event, a poetry that
emerges from a deep political conviction and which recognizes that, in
human history, a set of facts that are “true” occur because they bring
with them universal and eternal ideas of justice and equality. That is
why Vallejo produced a “militant art” that is not the same as an art of
ideology. I am referring, with Badiou (undated), to an art where
ideology does not manifest itself as something constituted but, rather,
as a force that is seeking to be constituted. This is, undoubtedly, an
innovative form of poetry, and one that is never glorified because it is
always recognized as imperfect. Vallejo forces the unnamable and
points to the intrinsically hollow nature of language (Montalbetti 2019,
124). It is not a question, either, of a poetry created in a space of power,
but of poetry that is always marginal and produced from a place of
defeat. “Art discovers paths, never goals,” he wrote in 1924 (Vallejo
2002a, b, c, 45). Vallejo was very critical of certain aspects of western
modernity and he was also critical of certain avant-garde positions that
reduced art to simple technical experiments or to a pure manual
formalism. “Image makers, give back the word to men” he stated,
emphatically, in one of his many journalistic chronicles (Vallejo 2002a,
b, c, 346). His artistic (and political) was always a poetry that revealed
the precariousness of the symbolic (of language, of the subject, of
culture, of society), but also (and above all) revealed a set of latent
political possibilities.
Vallejo does not propose an art of “representation,” but of
“presentation.” He proposes an art of “becoming,” but a type of
becoming of which “we already know something” (not of something
that is “about to come”) because, in some way, that something “already
is,” “has already happened” in the world. It is something that can be
found both in history and in the present and that can be radicalized into
a set of political decisions. Vallejo was an observer of not yet realized
possibilities in history, and his verses were an attempt to recall them.
His poetry, therefore, is one that emerges from an intense conviction,
from a deep reflection on the limits of literary expression and from a
particular historical situation read always from a universal point of
view.
This book started when I began to wonder about the
representations of “excess” in Vallejo’s poetry. I realized that many of
his poems faced this problem and that they were more than just a
literary motif. Vallejo observed that, in human beings, there is an
inclination towards excess that has been historically censured by
ethical traditions or by official ideologies. However, he also realized that
excess defines something central to human subjectivity and, for this
reason, he not only tried to give it dignity but, above all, to make it a
political factor. For Vallejo, the subject is an excess, language is an
excess, love is an excess, and revolution itself is also an excess, an
excess of lack. This is what would seem to be the most human of
humanity.
The “ethics of the real” (Lacan 2005; Badiou 2004; Zupancic 2010)
is one that recognizes that the subject is inhabited by an inherent
negativity and is, therefore, divided. From there, it forces us to think
that subjectivity is due as much to its own faults as to an inclination to
the excess that still does not have a name. What is the unnamable? In
this poetry, the unnamable is that emptiness or excess that reveals the
inconsistency of the symbolic order, that is, the crisis of a given state of
social reality. Vallejo, therefore, discovers the need to recognize that
flaw and to notice that language cannot say everything either about
oneself or about reality. For this reason, many of his images aim to
name that which overflows reality and that which has been abandoned
and left without a place. In this book, I will argue that Vallejo’s poetic
project consisted, above all, in resubjectivizing the space of artistic
expression (and of political options) with an ethic that affirms the
importance of the excessively human (to transcend certain limits), from
an awareness of the unmentionable (“lack” or “excess”), understood as
a place of a possible encounter with the event.
From there, Vallejo began to politicize pain and to question its
causes and conditions. In fact, the event emerges from an outside which
one must recognize and be faithful to. In Vallejo’s poetry there is, on the
one hand, a movement that goes from desire to drive, from control to
uncontrol, but there also emerges a political option for its reverse, that
is, an effort to get out of the drive to return to desire and, from there, to
be able to elaborate new political meanings (Zupancic 2010). Vallejo, in
fact, was a communist writer who understood communism as an
indestructible truth that runs through human history because it has
emerged from an event that gives direction to political struggles
(Badiou 2004). In Vallejo, communism is the bearer of old demands of
justice and equality; it is the “archaic name for something that is
entirely to come” (Jean-Luc Nancy 2014).
The intensity of the event derives from Vallejo’s observation that a
new actor has appeared on the scene and his understanding that the
world could begin to reconfigure itself from that place. In fact, many of
his poems (from the first book) center on those who have been “left
out” of the system, because they reveal the structural flaws of the larger
society. The utopian vision emerges, therefore, from a critique that has
identified an impasse, but also from an encounter that confirms a new
possibility. This is, in effect, a poetry that recognizes the emergence of a
political event while it investigates who we are (identity and social
bonds) as well as the tensions and antagonisms of what we are not yet,
but that we could become (Bosteels 2016, 132).
Vallejo, in short, is not a neutral author: he takes a position and is
proud of it. Although it is always marked by pain and loss, his poetry
finally constructs a new political subjectivity or, better said, a new
“subject of the will” (Hallward 2001). Although his verses never had
any qualms in recognizing how we human beings cower before the
event (where we are from so much being there /có mo quedamos de tan
quedarnos, says a remarkable line of Trilce XIX), his work also verifies
that the subjects are capable of making decisions and can be faithful to
a truth even when everything has become adverse. For this reason,
Vallejo did not hesitate to celebrate a group of persons who defended
the “communist idea” to the end, because they embodied the kind of
subjectivity that the new world required. “Man is identified by his
affirmative thought, by the singular truths of which he is capable, by the
immortality that makes him the most resistant and the most
paradoxical of animals” (Badiou 2004, 42).
In sum, Vallejo’s poetry shows how a voice, a subject, is being
plotted by a truth that, in this case, is a political truth that anxiously
seeks and fights for human emancipation. Vallejo was a writer who felt
challenged by “the communist idea” and tried to be faithful to it in his
own writing. From there, his poetry proposes that a subject only
becomes a subject (a human being, in his words) when he or she
becomes faithful to a universal truth and when he proposes to defend it
in spite of defeat, errors or “lost causes” (Ž ižek 2011).
Badiou (2009b: 129) has sustained that “Every poem is an
interruption of language about itself and about the world in a given
state of reality”. In that sense, Vallejo’s poems attempted to be acts. In
many cases, the poems try to mobilize different resources to transform
a vision of things. His poems forcefully extract elements from language;
they try to name something unnamable, and they do it in a new way.
Vallejo is a dialectical writer, an author whose verses contemplate
human reality from a syntax full of twists, gaps, juxtapositions,
contradictions, emptiness, and internal ruptures. If Vallejo is a decisive
force in contemporary poetry, it is because his work allows us to
question the traditional ways of representing reality in order to see
another way of relating to language and to the world represented by
language. If today Vallejo is a literary classic, it is because his work
brings a truth that pierces the sense of what is given, a truth that can no
longer be doubted because it restores something that is universal:
human justice.
 It is often said that political poetry is short lived and that, when
contexts change, political poems lose their force (De Costa 1993, 84).
None of this happens with Vallejo’s poems which, despite the passage of
time, still maintain surprising poetic force. This is because his poems
always discuss “the becoming of truths and the subjects that escort that
becoming” (Badiou 2010, 106). In a world like the present, where the
human being “has stopped being a ‘subject of truth’ to become a
sophisticated animal only with particular interests” (Groys 2016, 192),
Vallejo’s poetry is different because he never abdicated his critical
function and affirmative will. He differentiated himself from a world
(like then, like now) that continues to be fundamentally hostile to the
conditions of truth (Badiou 1999, 12).

Bibliography
References
Badiou, Alain. 1999. San pablo o la fundación del universalismo. Barcelona: Anthropos.

———. 2004. La ética: ensayo sobre la conciencia del mal. Barcelona: Herder.

———. 2009a. Teoría del sujeto. Buenos Aires: Prometeo.

———. 2009b. Pequeño manual de inestética. Buenos Aires: Prometeo.

———. 2009c. Compendio de metapolítica. Buenos Aires: Prometeo.

———. 2010. Segundo manifiesto por la filosofía. Buenos Aires: Manantial.

———. 2018. El balcón del presente. Conferencias y entrevistas. México DF: Siglo XXI.

Bosteels, Bruno. 2016. Marx y Freud en América Latina. Política, psicoanálisis y religión
en tiempos de terror. Madrid: Akal.

De costa, René. 1993. La poesía de Pablo Neruda. Santiago de Chile: Andrés Bello.

Groys, Boris. 2016. Arte en flujo. Ensayos sobre la evanescencia del presente. Buenos
Aires: Caja negra.

Hallward, Peter. 2001. Traslation introduction. In Ethics: An essay on the

understanding of Evil, ed. Alain Badiou. London: Verso.
Lacan, Jacques. 2005. Seminario 7. La ética del psicoanálisis [1959–1960]. Buenos
Aires: Paidó s.

Montalbetti, Mario. 2019. El pensamiento del poema. Santiago: Marginalia editores.

Nancy, Jean-Luc, and Jean Christophe Bailly. 2014. La comparecencia. Madrid:

Avarigani.

Vallejo, César. 2002a. Artículos y Crónicas completas. Tomos I y II. Recopilació n,

pró logo, notas y documentació n por Jorge Puccinelli. Lima: Pontificia Universidad
Cató lica del Perú .

———. 2002b. Correspondencia completa. Edició n, estudio preliminar y notas de

Jesú s Cabel. Lima: Pontificia Universidad Cató lica del Perú .

———. 2002c. Ensayos y reportajes completos. Edició n, estudio preliminar y notas de

Manuel Miguel de Priego. Lima: Pontificia Universidad Cató lica del Perú .

Ž iž ek, Slavoj. 2011. En defensa de las causas perdidas. Madrid: Akal.

Zupancic, Alenka. 2010. Ética de lo real: Kant, Lacan. Buenos Aires: Prometeo.
© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024
V. Vich, César Vallejo, Studies in Revolution and Literature
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-33513-6_2

2. A Poet of the Ethics of the Real

Víctor Vich1
(1) Pontificia Universidad Cató lica del Perú , Lima, Perú

Víctor Vich
Email: vvich@pucp.pe

César Vallejo is a poet of pain but not one of depression and defeat. He
is a poet who recognizes the incomplete and fragile condition of human
beings, but this does not lead him to the impossibility of affirming an
idea. Despite noting the structural malaise of the human condition, in
spite of attempting to name its limits and failures, his poetry proposes
something different and commits itself to a cause. Although pain can be
defined as a force that limits the construction of meaning, and although
his themes expose the absurd dimension of existence, his verses
ultimately choose to defend a truth, a transcendental meaning,
something worth living for. Little by little, Vallejo takes that pain, that
inherent source of subjectivity, and forges something out of it.
What is the meaning of pain in his poetry? Is it something related to
loss, to the passage of time, to some kind of discomfort and
dissatisfaction? Is it a sign of something that is beyond human control
and that is never completely traceable? In this poetry, in fact, pain
refers to something very intense that language can never fully define
because it seems to be located elsewhere. Some of the pain has to do
with excess. William Rowe has described it this way:
Pain cannot be interpreted, not ethically, not politically, not
metaphysically, not even aesthetically. And although pain is
 associated with a condition of sacrifice, it lacks an idea, a
sacrificial ideology, that gives it meaning. (2006, 19)

Vallejo is a poet of the “ethics of the Real.” What does this mean? The
Real is not reality. Reality is always a law. Reality is a discourse
articulated through existing power structures. The Real, on the
contrary, is an excess, something that has surpassed that framework,
that never fits in and that opens a crack in reality. The Real—Lacanians
maintain—is the sign of the crisis of the symbolic, is the gauntlet laid
down to culture demanding that it function as an organic whole (Ž ižek
2011a, 328).
Jacques Allan Miller (2006) has maintained that, unlike traditional
ethics, the ethics of psychoanalysis is one that arises from a type of
“malaise” (in the culture, in the subject) and that, for the same reason,
works by assuming the flaws of the symbolic and of subjectivity in
general. In fact, Freud (2001) had already noticed that culture’s hidden
assumption is that excess needs to be subsumed or sacrificed for social
order and that, in that sense, it chooses to oppose something
fundamentally human. Culture needs to repress excesses, or extirpate
them, to guarantee order, control, and law.
Vallejo is a poet of the “ethics of the Real” because he recognizes
that this inclination to excess expresses something fundamental to the
human condition. Moreover, in expressing this excess he attempts to
capture a hidden pleasure, resulting in a unique form of verse and also
a unique stance visàvis society. The “ethics of the Real” is one that aims
to question the way in which social habits are established and prevent
us from defining ourselves fully. It is an ethic that, in recognizing that it
is not so easy to get rid of the inclination to excess, makes it necessary
to start maneuvering it in a different way. “The ethics of psychoanalysis
—says Lacan—is one that accepts the tragic dimension of life” (2005b,
372). It is about an ethics that has chosen to think about subjectivity by
internalizing its flaws rather than denying them. Let us temporarily
suspend any theoretical explanation and use a concrete example
instead: Trilce XIII (Vallejo 2022, b, c, d, 29).

I think of your sex.

Simple-hearted, I think of your sex
as I confront day’s ripe burgeoning.
I feel the bud of bliss, now in season.
And an ancient sense dies
devolved into mind.

I think of your sex, a furrow more abounding

and melodious than the Shadow’s womb,
although Death conceives and bears
from God himself.
Oh Conscience,
yes, I think of the free beast
that delights where it will, where it can.

Oh, honied riot of dusks.

Oh muffled crash.

Hsarcdelffum!

I think of your sex (Pienso en tu sexo) must have been a very

transgressive and destabilizing modernist statement, given the
prevailing morality and cultural rules of that time. In fact, it is not a
verse constructed from great literary figures. It does not place the
reader in front of a metaphorical image. It is, to the contrary, a
statement that directly names something and shows, without shame, a
type of thought that seems to be more than a simple thought. When the
verse states categorically I think of your sex (Pienso en tu sexo), we can
say that it is pointing to the Real.
What is Vallejo trying to show with this image? What is he trying to
legitimate? The answer is that there is something about sex that is
situated far beyond the discourse of love. Vallejo does not say that he is
in love and has sublime feelings. He simply says that he is thinking
about sex, that he is obsessed with it and repeats the phrase at least
twice. In other words, the poetic voice affirms that there is something
in the human condition that cannot be completely controlled but that,
nevertheless, must be faced and expressed symbolically with courage.
As opposed to a discourse that disciplines eroticism and forces the
hiding of desires, this verse makes public what is usually repressed.
 With this verse, Vallejo begins to escape from the discourse of guilt.
And an ancient sense dies (Y muere un sentimiento antiguo), he says,
and from there he shows that the body must recover its dignity by
stepping away from a social mandate that has placed duty above desire.
There is an image that equates the sexual act with a fall (Death
conceives and bears/ from God himself/ la Muerte concibe y pare/ de
Dios mismo), but the whole poem is presented as a recovery of the
physicality of the body and of desire (sex, mind/ sexo, seso) beyond all
moral discipline and archaic religious norms. In fact, there is something
here that emerges from the depths (something that reason has denied)
and that the poem has decided to put in the foreground: the free beast/
that delights where it will, where it can/ el bruto libre/ que goza donde
quiere, donde puede.
This something is jouissance: a force that has no word, that has no
form and that moves us to desire. Jouissance, however, is something
that the subject does not know well about himself, and that reason does
not explain clearly. It is something within me, but which I do not know
about myself. Vallejo, therefore, has proposed naming jouissance as that
internal force that is not elaborated by the social and thus escapes all
cultural parameters. The poem places us before a subjectivity that
recognizes that it has been taken by something that is one’s own, but
that one does not recognize or know (Braunstein 2006).
The peak moment of sexual intercourse unleashes a jouissance.
How does Vallejo describe the orgasm? The poem presents a sequence
comprising three attempts to define it: first he names it with a classic
figure: (honied riot of dusks/ escá ndalo de miel de los crepú sculos), but
that image does not seem to him exact nor sufficient. In his opinion, it is
an image that still sounds very traditional (it is a classic modernist
image) and that does not manage to capture the intensity of the instant.
So he resorts to a more complex image, an oxymoron, because he
intuits that with it he can describe an extreme tension that points to
something that is not rational and that in the poem emerges as a
linguistic absurdity: the orgasm is a silent roar (muffled crash/
estruendo mudo), that is, a loud but silent noise; a noise without noise
that is, however, so intense that it disrupts everything. For the poem,
this second representation is an improvement (with respect to the need
to name the unnamable), although the poetic voice knows well that it
too does not completely capture what has been experienced. Hence,
Vallejo tries to symbolize it for the third time and writes:

Hsarcdelffum!

If this word reverses the order of writing, it does so as a form of protest

against a symbolic instrument—language—that cannot account for the
totality of the experience of jouissance. All this effort has thus arrived at
a final strategy, one in which writing backwards reveals the precarious
and limited character of human language. In fact, this gesture (writing
backwards) opens a crack in symbolic language to try to reach the
unsymbolized, that is, the “other side” of life. Alongside Eagleton, we
could say that in this poem Vallejo “recovers the libidinal practice of the
body and with it explodes the univocal languages of reason” (2011a, b,
416).
This transgression of the rules of language shows that the Real must
be understood as a true crack within the very framework of the
symbolic. Indeed, in this poem we note that the symbolic breaks in its
own function or, better said, that jouissance is the sign through which
the Real breaks the symbolic because it always returns (Ž ižek 2008,
328). As we will see later, the “ethics of the Real” and a large proportion
of César Vallejo’s poetry works towards this goal.
Ethics has been defined as a disciplinary discourse that tries to
control something overflowing or overflowing in subjectivity. In fact,
ethics has always aimed at building a set of rules or principles to
control certain desires, often excessive ones. Traditional ethics
maintains that excess is something that must be expelled, and, for that
reason, Aristotle defined ethics as a practice that should activate a
balance between an excess and a lack thereof. In the second book of the
“Ethics to Nicomacheus,” Aristotle states the following: “Thus virtue is
in relation to the passions and actions, in which the excess and the
defect are a mistake, while the middle ground is a success and causes
praise” (2010, 56). From this point of view, the ethical objective should
be to produce a counterbalance and a balance. The search for that
harmony is what will shape virtue.
In contrast, the “ethics of the Real” does not try to eliminate that
excessive and uncontrolled dimension of the human condition. Its
objective is not to “purify” the subject or to invent a false harmony. It is,
to the contrary, the attempt to find another way for both the excess and
the lack to subjectively affirm a truth that lies far beyond the
established rules. The “ethics of the Real” is one that retakes a kind of
impossibility (something of the absent, of the traumatic, of the
excessive, of the not symbolized) to, from there, promote a new act
(Zupancic 2010, 19). It is about an ethics that affirms something
irrational or traumatic to try to transcend it. A new poem, Trilce LXXIII,
explores this problem further (Vallejo 2022, b, c, d, 165):

Another alas has triumphed. There lies the truth.

And whoever acts so, won’t he really know
how to train excellent digitigrades
for the mouse Yes . . . No . . .?

Another alas has triumphed and against no one.

Oh exosmosis of chemically pure water.
Ah southwinds of mine. Oh our divines.
I have the right then
to be green and content and dangerous, and to be
the chisel, the fear of the crude coarse block;
to put my foot in it, and to laughter.

Absurd, only you are pure.

Absurd, only before you does this excess
sweat with golden pleasure.

This poem places negativity at the center of human subjectivity. Pain—

that ay (alas)—would seem to be the subject’s truth. The verses present
the human being as burdened with excessive forces over which he or
she has no complete control. Pain, in fact, appears without any cause
and thus accounts for a flaw that is central to identity. The poem,
however, has chosen to acknowledge it and therefore has no qualms
about presenting a sentence: there lies the truth (la verdad está ahí), it
says, trying to find some meaning in this negativity.
By means of a strange poetic construction, and whoever acts so (y
quien tal actú a), the text asks itself if the subject could control his or
her drives, if the subject could learn to maneuver that inherent
negativity or that constitutive excess. Can the subject control his or her
impulses? Can the uncontrollable be controlled? Can that elusive thing
that is the Real be known? The poem does not provide any answer and
only insists on reaffirming a question: Yes…No…? (Sí…No…?). The
mention of animals seems to be a way to name that desire that seems
uncontrollable.
That is why the poem insists on stating emphatically once again:
Another alas has triumphed and against no one (ha triunfado otro ay y
contra nadie). Its intention is to emphasize that this pain, this failure,
has no clear cause or origin. In fact, the particle ay (alas) does not name
something specific but refers instead to the difficulty of expressing a
dimension that can never be forged into its symbolic form. In other
words, the poem emphasizes, once again, the triumph of the unnamable
over pain, which can only be alluded to through an interjection. In any
case, that against no one (contra nadie) is a paradoxical figure since, in
general, the preposition against (contra) should allude to a
confrontation with someone or something, but there no longer seems
to be anyone to confront. This is a poem that concentrates only on the
need to name an absurdity, that is, on the lack of a cause for pain, on its
ever inexplicable character.
Note that negativity, or pain, is found both “outside” and “inside” the
subject, and emerges by surprise. Sweat is here a symbol of something
beyond human control because one cannot decide when or how much
to sweat. The word exosmosis (exó smosis) names that sweat, but it
renders the situation much more complex by referring not only to a
liquid that emerges from the inside out, but also from the outside in.
Therefore, the poem discovers that pain comes from all sides and
acknowledges the need to recognize its presence, its effects, and its
inherent contradictions.
Badiou (2002, 197) maintains that a truth is always “outside” of
language and established knowledge. Therefore, in this poem, neither
earth nor heaven can explain pain, since the true thing is always
indecipherable, indiscernible, generic, and unnamable. Pain, then,
seems to be at once earthly and cosmic, something that always exceeds
explanation. Southwinds of mine (míos australes) and our divines
(nuestros divinos) are insufficient to explain the nature of what is
happening. Poetic discourse then emerges as the place that points to
the unnamable and to excess.
This is a poem that has chosen to be reconciled with contradiction
and with the overflow of human impulses. The poetic voice reaffirms its
right to excess, for it has found there something it can no longer doubt. I
have the right to laughter (Tengo derecho a la risa), says the verse; to
put my foot in it (a meter la pata). In other words, this is a voice that
acknowledges it needs to recover something from its wild side, from its
faults, and from its less “mature” state (I have the right to be green/
tengo derecho a estar verde, it says), because only from this recognition
can it begin to free itself from this illusion of coherence that traditional
ethics demands. From there, the poet chooses to represent himself as a
sculptor (the synecdoche being chisel, cincel) and, therefore, as
someone who, now fearless, can create something new (Hibbett 2004).
To do so, he must face something crude (basto), yet always coarse
(vasto).
In sum, the poem accepts everything that is usually associated with
negativity, because it has begun to recognize it not only as legitimate
but also as the carrier of a truth fundamental to the human condition.
There is, however, no value judgment that mediates this observation.
Rather, the poem accepts the absence of explanation and attempts to
reconcile itself with its own pain no matter the cost. The poem states
that there is no solution to pain and the word absurd (absurdo) is
synonymous with contradiction, that is, the inevitable character of
nonmeaning. Pain is always there and pain always is. The poem
recognizes it, objectifies it, and assumes it as a truth. With courage, the
poetic voice makes pain its own (makes the symptom its own) and
begins, without fear, to identify with it.
“I am going to speak of hope” (“Voy a hablar de la Esperanza”) is
another poem that asks, radically, about human suffering. Vallejo
represents suffering as something that can never be completely calmed
and as a kind of inherent malaise. The poem locates a “cursed part” in
subjectivity that is not a pathology, but a precondition of being alive in
this world (Vallejo 2012, b, 335).

I do not suffer this pain as César Vallejo. I do not hurt now as an

artist, as a man or even as a mere living being. I do not suffer this
 pain as a Catholic, as a Muslim, nor as an atheist. Today I simply
suffer. Were my name not César Vallejo, I would suffer this same
pain. Were I not an artist I would still suffer it. Were I not a man
or even a living being, I would still suffer it. Were I not Catholic,
atheist, Muslim, I would still suffer it. Today I suffer from deep
down. Today I simply suffer.
I hurt today inexplicably. My pain is so deep it had no cause
nor does it lack a cause. What would its cause be? Where is that
thing so important that it would cease to be its cause? Nothing
caused it; nothing has stopped being its cause. Why has this pain
been born, all by its own? My pain comes from the north wind
and from the south wind, as those neutral eggs that some
strange birds hatch from the wind. Had my girlfriend died, my
pain would be the same. Had they cut my head clean off my neck,
my pain would be the same. Were life, in short, some other way,
my pain would be the same. Today I suffer from higher up. Today
I simply suffer.
I see the starving man’s pain and see his hunger move so
distant from my own suffering, that if I fasted to death, at least a
blade of grass would sprout from my tomb. The same for the
man in love. How begotten his blood compared to mine, without
source or consumption!
Until now I believed everything in this universe was
inevitably a father or a son. But the fact is that today my pain is
neither a father nor a son. It does not have enough back to night-
fall, as it has more than enough chest to dawn. Placed in a dark
room it would shed no light, and placed in a bright one, it would
cast no shadow. Today I suffer come what may. Today I simply
suffer.

What does Vallejo mean by the word suffering (sufrimiento)? The pain
of a punch? A situation of extreme sadness? A generalized depression?
No. Suffering is the word Vallejo has chosen to name a kind of structural
failure that defines a human being. The poem tries to demonstrate that
this failure can never be completely resolved. In the first sentence
Vallejo depersonalizes his pain. He claims that the suffering he feels is
not something that refers to a clinical diagnosis because it has nothing
to do with his personal history. “I’m not going to recount my life,” he
seems to say, “I’m not going to explain the reasons for my suffering.”
Vallejo, then, does not suffer here as Vallejo, but as any human being. Or,
perhaps, his proposal is even more radical: he affirms that he does not
suffer as a human being because the verses refer to a core that cannot
be encapsulated. In this sense, the poem affirms that it is the whole
universe, the absolute self, that suffers because it seems to have an
original flaw. Vallejo maintains that suffering transcends, that one
suffers from deep down (desde má s abajo).
For this poem, pain, in fact, is something that emerges
independently of personal history and comes with life itself. In the
second stanza, Vallejo asks himself: What would its cause be? Where is
that thing so important that it would cease to be its cause? (¿Qué sería su
causa? ¿Dó nde está aquello tan importante, que dejase de ser su
causa?). And, at once, he answers: Nothing caused it; nothing has
stopped being its cause (Nada es su causa; nada ha podido dejar de ser
su causa). The poem does reach a conclusion: that it does have a
finding, that it does reach a kind of truth. The conclusion is that this
discomfort, this structural failure, comes with human existence itself
and that human pain does not have a traceable cause, that there is
something about it that exceeds explanation. The poem is then a
testimony to the acceptance of that failure, to face that discomfort and
to begin to position oneself before it in another way. Today I suffer come
what may. Today I simply suffer (Hoy sufro suceda lo que suceda. Hoy
sufro solamente), the poem concludes, avoiding any kind of
compassionate sentimentality.
It is essential to note that Vallejo does not victimize himself. The
poetic voice is not asking for help. It is not building an image of itself
with some personal interest in mind. Its objective is only to give
testimony and to theorize on the human condition. For Vallejo, there is
something about suffering that is inexplicable because it does not
depend on personal or political history. The poem insists on this
repeatedly and therefore confronts us with a pain that is neither
“father” nor “son.” It is a pain that neither reason nor symbolic order
can fully explain because it has to do with the friction in the face of a
world that does not seem to have been completely made for the subject.
In this poem, the subject also suffers from higher up (desde má s arriba).
 However, this is not a disconcerted subjectivity. The poem does not
place us before a disoriented subjectivity, but rather one that wants to
speak of hope, but does so by transgressing the senses commonly
associated with it. Why this title? Why is the poem entitled “I am going
to speak of hope?” if it could be argued that there is no hope here and
that suffering is fundamentally conceptualized as something
irremediable? The poem does not end with a subject looking into the
past and searching for the source of his or her pain. What the poem
stresses is, on the contrary, that hope must be based on the very
division of the subject. In other words, the poem discovers that what
provides hope is neither something that is “good” nor a “cure.” It is, on
the contrary, something that must emerge from one’s own suffering and
not from a place outside it. For this to happen, the subject must fully
identify with his or her pain and be aware of his or her constitutive
split. This is not a poem that looks at the past and gets stuck in it. It is a
poem that recognizes the rawness of the present in order to begin to
live better. The idea is that the subject comes to understand himself or
herself with that pain that emerges or that harasses as a form of
jouissance and as a symptom. Again, this seems to be a text that does
not deny excess and that, rather, has chosen to accept it with dignity
because it understands that it is, inevitably, a driving force of human
existence:

Pain is that part of the body that provokes movement and this is
what makes it the first testimony of the remains of the spirit.
Pain is the corporal proof that there are remains of the spirit,
while it incites the shadows to movement. (Badiou, 2009b, 169)

In conclusion, the poem observes how the subject is always tied to pain,
without meaning that it controls him or her completely. Vallejo
recognizes that pain is found within life and never outside it, but his
verses try to overcome his denial to open a field of greater visibility. Let
us now look at the poem entitled “Payroll of bones” (“Nó mina de
huesos”) (Vallejo 2012, b, 327):

It was demanded loudly:

“Let him show both hands at once.”
And this was not possible.
“Let them, as he cries, take the measure of his steps.”
And this was not possible.
“Let him think an identical thought, while a zero remains useless.”
And this was not possible.
“Let him do something mad.”
And this was not possible.
“Let a crowd of men like him stand between him and a man just like
him.”
And this was not possible.
“Let them compare him to himself.”
And this was not possible.
“Let them, lastly, call him by his name.”
And this was not possible.

This poem is a new attempt to define the human being, to try to answer
the question of what human subjectivity is and how it works. Vallejo
tries to give an account of its structure but once again fails to find a
definitive answer. The title alludes to this need to name, to classify this
supposed “organic whole” from its parts. “Payroll of bones” is a way of
asking what the human being is. It is understood, in principle, that by
describing his parts, that is, by listing each of them, a human being can
be described with transparency and clarity.
The rhetoric here is skillful and novel: a somewhat impersonal voice
is describing a set of mandates for verifying the qualities of the human
condition. The human being is asked, or required, to perform a set of
tasks that he or she can never do, perhaps because they refuse to
comply with them or because they simply cannot or do not know how
to do them. These tasks are presented as authoritarian imperatives, as
disciplinary discourses, as forms of social control. In this sense, the
poem gives an account of the moment of ideological interpellation that
is of the emergence of subjectivity because of cultural mandates. It is
always culture, the symbolic order, which constitutes the subjects when
they are asked to perform or do something (Althusser 1977).
These mandates nonetheless all have one thing in common, which is
their demand for “unity,” that is, they demand that the subject be a
“unified” and “coherent” whole. For example, the subject is asked to be
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
arbeid en innige gehechtheid aan saizoenen-werk. Piet, achter ’m
aan, strooide in zwenkend uitwaaierend gebaar, ingehouen toch, nog
wat raapstelen en wortelzaad na. Dadelijk hakte Dirk bezaaide
bedjes in, met z’n harktanden omwoelend den grond, dat ’t zaad in
grappige sprongetjes opdanste.—Z’n lijf stond krom en z’n gezicht
wreed, werkstrak. Heel den middag door hakten en kerfden z’n
harktanden overal de bezaaide bedjes, bang voor vogels, die de
korrels anders wegpikten. Dàn plakte Piet den grond dicht, achter
ingehakte woeling, glad als asfalt, dàn Dirk achter [266]hem, in
onbesproken wisseling van arbeid, ’n Greppel van hen àf werkten de
neven Hassel. Flauw brommerig gegroet was er tusschen ’n paar,
dat in den morgen éven gromde, maar dadelijk dreef de vijandschap
weer boven, vrat er dieperen haat in, zonder dat ze familie-ruzie van
de vaders ooit elkaar verklaard hadden. Piet had juist Willem Hassel,
z’n neef, ’n snauw gegeven. Die, verbluft wat, niet klaar met z’n
antwoord, stond in verlegen woede de lucht in te fluiten, sarrend den
ander, smorend eigen kwaadaardigheid. Oom Hassel, Gerrit’s broer,
was ook op ’t land gestapt, manoeuvreerde tusschen bedden en
regels in en loerde stil of de neven ook gereedschap van hem
gebruikten. Wacht!—daar zag ie waarempel ’n mestkruiwagen van
d’r lui staan, even op zijn grond in ’n hoekje achter de voorhaag.

—Weg die rommel, krijschte ie, màin grond!.. màin grond!

Terug morde gevloek, zacht nog van Dirk; en Piet vechtlustig wou ’m
wel op z’n gezicht slaan.

—Jou grond, snauwde Piet, aa’s je d’r ofstapt.… ke je de korrels van

je klompe skuure!

Dirk, die niet erg hield van hurrie, had den kruiwagen ’n stomp
duwetje gegeven, twee voet naar hun eigen akker toe. De neven,
stil, bleven aan ’t inhakken van zaad of harken, zeien niets, keken
maar strak op den grond en ’t zaad, dat òphuppelde onder
harktanden. Soms, éven klonk licht gezang van mannestem uit
bollenland, tenorig-hoog vergalmend. Dan plots weer uit anderen
hoek woei zangstem aan, in afgehaakte geluiden, door schuddend
beweeg van lijf, klonk er nagalm tusschen werkers, hurkend bij
hyacint en tulpenloof.—

Hooger in enkele dagen was ’t prachtglanzend licht groen van de

hyacinten-velden de akkers uitgepunt, juichend tegen den
zilverenden, hooger zich openenden wolkdampigen lentehemel.
Breed in vlakkige sier, òverlichtte het de nog grauwbronze
aardplekjes van tuinderij midden in. Uit een hoek, bezij ’t land van
den Ouë, kwam al zachte violet-paars waas, uit vergroend aardvlak
schemeren. Door het haaggetak, van verre al, waasde paarse
wasem, in zacht violetten brand, [267]geurende goùdgeel-gloeiende
krokussen, wonder-teer wiegelend op toonfijn stengelgroen. Overal
rondom, in lanen en veldpaadjes, barstte strijd los, tusschen ’t groen.
Fel lichtgroen glansde hoog in pracht tegen malscher kleurnuancen
van tulpenblad. Dwars door ’t lichtende hyacintenloof, ’t blauw dof-
groen van narcissen en ’t grijs-groene in waas omdampt, van al
andere soorten. En ’s avonds, als werkers tegen half zeven
afstapten van ’t land in lentescheemring; voortsjokten op de
eenzame weggetjes, en kronkelpaadjes, tusschen haagjes-engte
van tuinderijen waarachter aan twee kanten al uitsapte groente-
spruitsel, in àl groenig waas, dan overal kwam hun tegemoet, wit
geschemer van sneeuwklokjes, op regeltjes geplant, als dwalend
lichtjesblank, afgebrande kaarsjes, die kropen, teer, halfgedoofd
langs de donkerende aarde, even soms nog geraakt en opbrandend
in flits van avondgoue glansjes. Stil en wijd-ernstig, den omtrek van
Duinkijk beheerschend, lag doodstil landgoed van jonker van
Ouwenaar, diep verdoken achter hoog geboomte, met de geheimvol
groenaanschemerende beuken voor ’t hekwerk.
[Inhoud]

II.

Hooger en weelde-dieper lenteleven kwam er bloeien en zoet

geuren in Aprilmaand, over de akkers. Fel stond ’t groen, narcissen
en tulpen in hun grijs-blauwe loof. Overal uit het duizendlanige
Duinkijk om Wiereland, tot aan Zeekijk, vloeide áán, de zoet-
duizelende geur van bloeiende hyacinten, lichtelijk ontknopt, de lucht
doordroesemend, de aarde bekleurend in teer-brozen gloed.
Dronken luchtwaaisel, warm en eind’loos zoet, doorgeurd, woei
longen in en hooger àl stonden de werkers omlijst van hun sierende
singelhagen, op ’t ochtendland. In het getemperd hemelblauw,
nevelig doorwaaid van gouïge dampen, stortten de dagen zich uit
over de akkers. Heerlijke jonge vreugd-adem zoelde en koelde door
’t bollengroen en licht, in lentevuur, vlamde zonschijn van akker naar
[268]akker. Beukgroen van de lanen stond te wierooken in zacht
lentewaas, en elk uur hóóger steeg ’t licht, doorvlamde ’t gras in
zacht sappig weeldegroen, fluweel groen, zoet-zijïg groen. En de
boomen overal traden áán, in fijne sier van jong-puntige blaadjes,
overal neer-regenende pracht van satijn-groen over de heilig-stille
wegjes met vocht van lentedauw doordrenkt. Overal lichtglans van
nieuw leven dat aanzoelen, aangeuren, aanwuiven kwam, tusschen
woesten groei van gras, rond wegduikende beekjes, langs oevertjes-
stille lommering, langs watertjes, die glans-gouïg en zilverdoorstoeid
van lichtrimpeling plasten en terugkaatsten, in bronze bodempjes,
hemelblauw en wolkzilver, kristallig en even verdonkerd van gloed.
Waar klaar doorhéén kleurden beekjesgrond en koralige steentjes,
bloedrood.

Aprilmaand was, verstald als blanke vrouw van mythische sier,

ingewiekt met gouen vleugelslag van zonnelicht, tusschen de
velden, de eerst nog droef-grauwe landen. Daar zwierf ze plots, in
lijnen-woest kapsel, met goudrossigen haarzwier, die vlamstreepte
en lichtkringen trok door de lucht en ’t akkerloof. Vóór haar zwierden
uit, blank-albasten handjes in godinnegratie, die rondstrooiden zoete
bedwelmingen van geur en kleur. En rag schuifelde haar teedere
voetjesgang door gras en sierloof, dat er ritseling golfde, als
aanvloeiing van fijnregenend fonteingeruisch. En overal waar ze
zwierde en zweefde, dàn liep en rustte, gingen zacht branden om ’r
heen, kransen van kleur en kransen van licht. En waar haar
wisselsnelle voetjes schuifelden en betipten éven de aarde, golfde
achter haar aan, blank en blond spel van lijnen en glanzen, die ze
terugving op doorvonkte sluiers van kantille-goudgaas, weer
òpstrooide in kringen, al breeder en breeder uit, wel grillig en jong-
vurig, maar licht en juichend; glans die gloeide, licht dat duizelde,
bruiste en vonkte op de warmte-inzuigende aarde.

Er was vroolijk gestoei onder de werkers. Ieder voelde wat

aanvloeien van de bedwelmende Apriljool in lucht en grond, hoorde
schuifelen den schalkschen stap van de vrouw met ’r goudrossigen
haarbrand. [269]

Op de akkers was drukker beweeg en blauwkielen, diepkleurend met

burries, vlammig beschilderd, droegen sneller dekriet tot hooibergen,
hoog dofblond, even door avondzon in rooden gloed getooverd.

Rond de akkers was nog druk gespit van bollenkweekers op

hoekpunten. Op den Beekhoek, zwaarder omdromd van groen,
stond Ouë Gerrit te kijken. ’n Bed van ’m af hurkten Dirk en Piet
tusschen de aardbeien. Overal rondom, piekten tuinders rijzen den
grond in, die al klaar lagen op losse bossen tusschen de
erwtenpaadjes. Licht-even groenden de doppers de aarde uit, in
scheemrige fijne regels. Het dooie-grijs-brons rijzenhout brak
malschen toon van ’t sappige gras in den omtrek. In één dag stond
laag-groen landschap doorpriemd van bajonettigen stand van
rijzenhout, mans hoog, vèr over de akkers. Als gepiek van
verweerde en beroeste geweerloopen knoesterig en takdood,
stonden de rijen hout tusschen het jonge doppergroen. En tusschen
hekjes en stekjes, àchter takjes en knoestjes, schemervlekten
hurkende kerels in blauwkielen als gedoopt in afdruipend ultramarijn.
Hun stompe klompenneuzen drukten in ’t zand, als ze knielden naast
hun hout en langzaam de rijzen op regels voortschoven, de puntig
gesneden knuppels, met forsche rukken en stooten de aarde
inborend.

Na eetuur van twaalf, stapten Dirk en Piet achter hun huisje op de

akkers, wat spinazie snijend voor de markt. In groote bakken,
vurenhout kistwerk, beschilderd met blauwe letters G. H., zeisten ze
de spinazie bijéén, op bosjes, losse blaadjes, geurige jonge
groenten, dat het glanzende sap van hun messen afdroop en zoetige
lucht, frisch en prikkelend de bakken uitwaaide. Dirk sneed kalm en
zeker, Gerrit laadde op, Piet sjouwde de kisten naar den wagen. Na
’n uur werken trok Piet naar de haven, waar al lichtelijk en duizelig
door-eenwarrelend gedrentel van marktdrukte joelde.
Groenteventers van ’t stedeke, zonder land en zonder eigen waar,
stonden gedrongen om tuinders die te veel goed hadden en niet
meetrokken met de tuindersbooten op marktdagen, naar Haarlem,
Amsterdam. [270]Aan walkanten, en onder áánlichtend groen
kastanje-lommer van de havenboomen, vlak voor ’n rij woonhuizen,
was uitstalling van jonge groenten op straat, in manden en bakken,
van walkant tot aan de stoepe. ’n Ophooping van karren met
stilturende trekpaardjes en ezeltjes, warden dwars en scheef bij
elkaar. Stille koop voor afslag klonk ’r vóór dat tuindersboot
aankwam om op te laden. Boven haventje dreef geweldig wijd-uit,
wolk-doorzilverde polderhemel, en boven één hoek naar spoordijk
grauwden paarse waterdragers.—
Aprilvrouw was, koketteerend en tartend, met ’r rosgouen zwier van
wapperhaar en omslingerd van door-zonde sluiers, in ’r ranke gracie
en vlammensier, al dagen achtereen weggedoken, had sarrend en
schalks in háár plaats gegoocheld, grimmig klownig weer-duiveltje.
Van overal dreigde wintergrauw in de luchten.

Reuzige ruïnen, omsmeed van licht-zilverend, afgebrokkeld

poortwerk, breed en diep-verhallend, dreven prachtzwaar in den
ochtend, met hooge bogen van wild licht omspannen, boven
geweldige polderwei en haventje, om in stillen val in te storten tegen
den middag, te vergrauwen in angstzwaar, woest regenzwerk.

Onder de spoorbrug, waar de tuindersbooten doorstoomden,

spartelde tusschen het sluizig-diep schaduwdonker gemuur,
lichtende plasglans van waterzilver, nauw-kronkelend door
bruggeboog. Zwaarder boven den spoordijk, rond polderruimte
donkerde ’t regenzwerk; droef daarin de gasreservoirs, die er
neergetold stonden als duistere kringkazernes zonder ingangen.

Op den spoordijk, tegen fel-scherpe lichtwolk brak donker uit,

lichaam van seinwachter, die draaide aan z’n paal voor z’n huisje,
dat er parmantigjes, klein-hoog stond. Langs den havenwal joeg
gewoel en gedrang van tonnenschuiten, tjalken, bokken en pramen.
Uit meelsloepen klauterden telkens wat kerels, wit bestoven, met
zakkenvracht, wit-doorpoeierd op den rug. Zwaarder in paars-duister
omdreigde polderlucht de haven met spoordijk en plots door
grauwblauw gewolk, rende lokomotief met wagens aan, doorstormde
in donkere vlucht [271]hemelzwerk, ijlzilveren stoom uitblazend tegen
dreigenden wolkachtergrond. Rechts naar station, eenzaam boven
het aansjacherend marktgewoel, hoog uitwiekend door grijzen
luchthoek, in statige wenteling van windgang, keek reuzige molen
over polderruimte. En rond hem, laag als neergebrokkeld,
huiskrotjes in rood gedak, schuil achter en onder boomgroen. Enkele
bootjes, vereenzaamd, lagen geankerd op stil walkantje, vlak bij de
polderhoogte, buiten sjacher-rumoer, waar hun kajuitsoogen net
even boven water staarden, wijd-open, als gesperd in benauwing,
met de vuil-gele en smoezelig bruine walstrooming ònder hun
angstblik. Matkleurig roer-rood en hardgroenen koperen bepuntsels
van schepen, boorde door de grauwige drukte. Tonnen, met
menierooie bodempjes werden in druk lawaai en geschreeuw
loopplanken op- en afgerold, weggeschommeld en recht-opgecirkeld
op d’r kanten, in voeten- en handen-techniek, als speelgoed,
lichtelijk versjouwd. En overal, tusschen tuinders en venters,
dromden kinderen, onder paardkarretjes en tusschen honden.—
Havenkroegen liepen vol en gulpten zwoegkerels uit, slokten
sjouwers in, kooplui, tuinders en scharrelaars, die afklapten en
prijsbedongen. Maar weinig nog was aanvoer en slap ’t groen van
spinazie en wat vroege sla.

Later in de maand was Aprilvrouw weer opgerankt in gracie en

achter haar aan trok ze diepere streepglanzen en kleurkransen,
lichtglorie van aanwarmend zomerland. Struikgroen en jong
geboomte stonden te wasemen in dauw en eerste bloemenbloei
tooide de ochtendvelden in kleurenlicht.

Zwaar, in zwoeg-ernst, wroetten de landwerkers. Eérst jolig

werkgeluk was overal bij tuinders en bollenknechten overgegaan in
zwoeggewoonte van menschdieren, stomp omwoelend de aarde.
Overal stond strakke loer op groei naar vruchtbaarheid, op
aardegistend leefsap, dat in wellustgeur den grond uitbruiste.
Angstig was ’t getuur van tuinders en kweekers, stille kijk naar de
aarde, bange, ingehouen vraag aan den zwijgenden grond of ie
geven zou volop, of ie groeien [272]zou, brengen kwam oogst, leven,
of ie werkte, gistte, licht en warmte inzoog.
Lentebrand ging over de akkers, vlammen van schroeiloos
zonnevuur. In al de tuinen kwam uitspruiten, asperge en radijs,
tuinboonen, lichtelijk zilver beblad, raapstelen, in groenen
bosjesdrom, erwtenranken en rhabarber, jong blad, waaronder steel-
rood uitkleurde. De aardbeibedjes jongden in d’r hel tintelende
groene uitloopertjes, lichter met den dag, dwars door het vaal dorre
brons en bloedrood, gouïg-omrand geschub van afgestorven loof
nog, dat nazong, tusschen lentegroen, éven z’n weedomlied van
herfst.

Ouë Gerrit liep in zoekend getuur naar den grond te kijken, tusschen
z’n bedden op de Beek. Dirk schoffelde rond de erwten en Piet met
helpertje, armelijk jochie, verzakt in zware man-kiel, wiedde de
worteltjes.

—Seg Piet.… hai jai d’r nog doppers.… de wind hep hier huis
houe.… nie een die d’r opkomp!.… kaik!.… dá’ hebbe de musse in
gefrete.… dá’ tuig!

Dirk sprak, doorwiedend met den schoffelboom hoog, uitschietend

z’n armen in breed gebaar.

—Ikke hep hier niks.… hep den Ouë dan nie walletjes anstreke?.…

—Wa’ nou.… walletjes? bromde Dirk met z’n rug naar Piet toe.… of
dá’ stoàm-erte binne.…

—Watte?.… schreeuwde Piet, die Dirk niet verstond.

—Twee swarte katte, bromde nog onverstaanbaarder Dirk, om Piet

te hinderen. Helpertje van twaalf, hurkte op z’n jongensknietjes,
mannig in z’n beweeg, tusschen de paadjes, achter Piets
klompenzool wiedend, nu weer in jonge sla, die al fletsig met z’n
geel-groenige schutblaadjes overgeplant, slap treurde. Z’n kleine
kinderknuistjes wroetten driftig tusschen ’t onkruid en telkens èven
schrok ie met ’n vloek terug, zoog ie z’n hand uit, in den mond, als hij
zich gestoken had aan brandnetels. Zwaar doorlapt sjofelde z’n
gescheurde broek om z’n lijf en z’n voeten in baggerschoenen,—
rooiig en gat-doorvreten, dat vieze teentjes er uit kromden,—
[273]plompten weer met zwaren druk op bed-randje van wortels.

—Seg Nailis, wa droai je d’ruit.… wá’ goan dá’ vlug!

—Se heppe main nie vlugger moakt, lachte ie met guitigen kop éven
opgeheven uit wiedbuk.

—Hier-op-pan! hee! je hakt puur mi je poote in de wortele!.… f’rwá’

hai je gain klompe?.…

’t Manneke bromde wat. Z’n klein bruin knuistje rukte door, vuil uit
den grond, in snelle grabbeling steunend op andere hand, gestrekt
onder z’n ingehurkt lijfje. Plat op z’n knieën schoof ie voort in buk, al
driftiger en gejaagder ’t onkruid voor zich uitsliertend op paadje.
Smerige kielmouwen slobberden laag over z’n knuistje op den
grond, z’n polsen en hand half bedekkend.

—Hee boàs.… boàs, schuchterde z’n stem,… hai je nog ’n

pruimpie.… je hep ’t b’loofd!

—Bé-jai-’t-Hain!.… hier! pakkan.… kanteloep!

Gretig propte ie met z’n vuile vingertjes tabakskrul samen uit

koperen doos die Piet, naar achtergedraaid ’m voorhield, en gulziger
nog bultte ie propje z’n mondhoek in, zuigend, zuigend, dat ie kwijlde
van genot.

—Kâ je d’r nou puur teuge.… je hep ’n kleur aa’s ’n vuil hemp.…
—Ho-je-mie!.… ho-je-mie! schaterde kereltje hoonend, met woeste
hand langs z’n kwijlend mondje strijkend,.… ikke rook t’met van main
sevende joar.… g’laik op mi foader! enne.… main broertje van ses
pruimpt wá’ stefig!.… En Kloas Dirkse.… Dirkse hep ’n.… soontje
van.… vaif.… die rookt aa’s ’n skoorsteen.… t’met.… vast woar!

—Nou, dá’ pak skeef uit.… dà pak skeef uit mi jou,.… dolde Piet,
snel wiedend, rondstrooiend z’n onkruid op de paadjes.… jai bind d’r
nog slimmer.… nog slechtiger aa’s ketoen van twee sint ’t el.…

—Hier-op-pan! lachte schalksch het mannetje.… ik bin alletaid

thuis.… waa’k woon? Bikkepad.… nummertje soek moar!.…

Ouë Gerrit sjokkerde achter Piet om, lekker zich voelend [274]in lichte
zonnehitte die aanwasemen kwam, en gretig snoof z’n neus
aardgeuren, zoelig en zoet. Nou keek ie ereis maar wat rond. Z’n
blommetjes had ie op de plaats van Bekkema, al wat gesnoeid, licht
werkje. En niks was daar voor ’m geweest. Alles stond er nog
potdicht. Alleen ’n boodschap van den huisknecht had ie gekregen,
dat ie deze week moest klaar zijn met de perkjes en gazonnetjes
vóór de villa! Nou had ie dààn, al van heel vroeg, en rustigjes stond
ie te genieten, geuren in te drinken, z’n pijpje linker mondhoek,
stevig ingebeten. Lekkertjes dampen zoo, en toch rustig loeren of d’r
wat op den kop te tikken viel. Hij dacht over ’n vondstje. Vlak aan
den weg, tegenover ’t villatje van Bekkema, was ’n klein huisje
getimmerd van ’n fotograaf. Bij dien had ie al ’n paar ochtenden
rondgedrenteld en ’n bakkie leut geslobberd. Die vent was heel
vrindelijk voor ’m geweest, had ’n paar maal, in allerlei standen ’n
kiekje van z’n kop genomen. Dat mocht ie wel hebben zoo, want
iedereen zei dat ’t ’n rijke kerel was, die fotograaf.

Damp-zwaar zoog ie òp z’n tabaksrook, dat ’t zacht reutelde door ’t

pijpsteeltje.
Lekker.… lekker tug soo’n paipie.… koesterde ie in zichzelf.… soo’n
paipie.… in ’n lekker sonnetje.… Miskien oogst tug nog bestig.…
enn.… bai die fent.… van de potegroàf.… soo veul moois sien.… Da
kon rooie.… puur rooie.… suiver rooie!.…

Zoo, in soezelige blijscheutige gedachtetjes snoof ie grondgeuren

op, van allen kant, en vroolijkte er iets genoegelijks-rustig in ’m van
binnen.—

Rondom stonden de bollenakkers in bloei. Hoog rankten de

hyacinten, in hun vakkige stijfheid, uitstortend zoeten, diep-
doordringenden geurwalm, en overal rond, vlam-vlekte, broeide,
schuimde en bruiste ’t licht in dollen droesem over de kleur-felle
akkers. In regel-rij schuimden als sneeuw-schitter, de hoogwitte
hyacinten, rein veld van hagelblanke bengelende klokken,
uitgalmend geuren. Dwars er tegen, er over en om, paarse
stroomen, trillende kleurgolven, in het [275]vochtige daggoud van
Hollandsche atmosfeer. Paars, lichter en dieper, stijgend en dalend
in gamma’s van gloed. En overal, op de doffe pracht van stengel-
groen, gouden trompetnarcissen, als in koperen jubel onder het
bevend lentelicht, uittoeterend zonnezang over de velden, wijd-alom.
—

Zacht, boven de hoofden der werkers, verliep lentedag in late zon,

dwars de boomen, rood-goud door hun groene pracht zeeftend. De
lucht stond wolkloos aan allen kant, teer azuurblauw, droomerig ver
en diep, wonderfijn ’t licht weerkaatsend, in zacht, nimbusgouïg
avondrood, vochtig en heilig. De werkers op de landen, zoelden in ’t
zachte groen-goud, en over hun gezichten nimbuste rooiige
weerschijn, glans van verheiligd licht. ’t Late zonnevuur brandde op
petkleppen van wat arbeiders in de bollen; vuur, dat weerlichtten
zilveren flitsen door ’t avondgroen, bij beweeg van hun werkkoppen.
Rondom de werkers, overal nog in beestigen zwoeg gebukt, ’t
gezicht naar de aarde, gehurkt tusschen hun bedden van groente en
gewas, ging zonne-avond rond, in zacht-heiligen brand. Fijn getwijg
stond te glanzen als stoeiden er engelen rond-omme de boomen, als
dwaalde er toortsen-tocht van madonna’s, gloed zonder vuur,
goudene damp, wazig tusschen de bladeren, in roerloozen zwijg van
het land. Lang áángehouen, stond de hemel stil, in doornevelde
goudrooie glanzen, plechtig en wijd-uitstralend, al lager, lager.—
Onderste struikvlammen en boomknoesten gloeiden nà in den
nimbusbrand van avondgoud.… Bronsrood verdroomden de
boomstammen; laag bij de aarde zonk dieper de zon uit in violet
vuur, onder singels en hagenbosschage, over akkerruimte, wijd-om
verpralend.

Mijmerende tempering vloeide over de kleurkelken van hyacinten.

Zacht doofde uit, de goudfelle zang van trompetnarcissen in het
plechtige avondzwijgen en èven nog, brandde na, in schroeiloozen,
wondren glans, rood vochtgoud over de huisjes en ruitjes. Wazig en
droomerig stonden de verre boomen te luisteren, roerloos naar de
avondrust; eeuwig en plechtig stond stil de lentelucht, doorwaaid van
zachte geuren. [276]

En langzaam kwam aanritselen heimvol geruisch, uit bosch en

zeekant, winde-voetjes door ’t loofgroen, in ruischenden stap, en
dieper de zacht uitgekleurde velden, verzwijmelden weer in zoet
bloemenaroom, sterker in avondval. Paarse en violette bloemselen
ademden uitgebrand in zachten, stillen schroom; blanker in
verscheem’ring sneeuwden òp de witte hyacinten.

[Inhoud]
III.

Acht klompen drongen bij deur-gangetje op ’t erf, stil en schuin,

paar-aan-paar, bijeen. De jongens tukten nog nà ’t middageten.
Guurt stond op ’t straatje bij steenen bank, borden, lepels en
pannen-blauwgoed in werkemmer uit te spoelen.

Ouë Gerrit liep ongeduldig langs ’n rijzenhok. Er moest gegierd

worden vandaag. De mestwagen met beervuil stond donker
bedropen, in smeuge smeer, achter de bruinige stuit,
stankverwasemend over de akkers. Niet goed zetten kon de Ouë ’t,
dat de jongens nog tukten; kregelen kon ’t ’m.

—Guurt, roep jai de manskappe d’rais.

—Nou Ouë.… lá’ hullie nog effe.…

—Moar main Jesis!.… hullie snurke de honderd uit!.…

De hond, vast aan den ketting, uitgemagerd kreupel trekbeest,

woelde onrustig in z’n stinkend stroo rond, beet woest in z’n vervuild
harig, jeukend vlooilijf dat rondgedot zat met straatsmeer en geel
riet, likte stiekem borden van Guurt af, rond ’r bank neergezet.

Giftig trapte de Ouë tegen z’n ribben uithoepelenden bast, dat ie

jankend in z’n nauw vuns-vuil hok-donker terugkroop.

—Heeoo!.… hee doàr, wak-kerr! schreeuwde Guurt ’t achterend in,

door ’t gangetje, naar d’r broers.

In schrik sprongen ze van den grond, met slaapmom op beteuterde

wezenlooze gezichten. [277]

—Main Jesis.… ’t is t’met half twee, gromde Piet, wrevelig en loom

z’n rug schurend in felle jeuk-rukken tegen scherp muurbint van stal.
Dirk was ’t erf opgesjokt, de akkers over, onrustig naar de lucht
kijkend.

—Tjonge.… d’r si puur soo’n klodder raige in de lucht.… dik op hoor!

—Hoho!.… hoho!.… wa sou ’t, hee?.… aa’s d’r t’met moar is, veur
giert hee?.… goeiïgde de Ouë.

—Je seurt fierkant Ouë.… sel wel beure.…

Loom en rillig van slaapguurte, nog mat zich voelend in z’n lijf, was
Dirk op den gierwagen gesprongen en schepte met z’n emmer ’t
bruine vuil in z’n kruiwagen. Telkens als kruikar volgegoten was,
reed ie op ’n drafje langs erwten en aardbeipaadjes, voet-nauw
klemmend bijna, dwars door rijzenengte, naar diep-getrokken voren
voor sperzieboonen, die ’r nog ingeplant moesten worden en apart
gier noodig hadden. In ’n ouën gieter schepte ie uit kruiwagen ’t vuil,
en snel, beenen wijduit, liep ie langs de voren, in stralen ’t vocht voor
zich uitsliertend dat ’t kletterschuimde op den pas omwoelden,
verschen aardgeur uitdampenden grond.—

—Seg, snert d’r nou nie deur hain Ouë, riep ie driftig naar Gerrit, die
van anderen kant was komen kijken.

—Huhu!.… hu.… wa hep ’t weer vorst weust f’nacht, zuchtte ie, main
Kristis!.… Kaik gunters!.… hoe die lamme kroaie in de errete sete
hewwe.… vier en vaife en nie g’nog.… d’r is puur ’n regel d’r uit.…
hoho!.… hoho!.… wa onhail tug!

—Nou.… bai.… ons.… is ’t nog.… hailig.… stootte Dirk er hijgend

uit, onder ’t volscheppen van z’n gieter, in diepe onderdompeling
door ’t vuil, dat z’n handen dropen.… kaik d’r t’met bai Huuzer.… en
bai de Spinnekop.… enne bai slappe Joàp.… dá’ hep ie puur
huishoue.… Nou netuurlik.. de spinoàsie ken teuge s’n leed.… Moar
mó’ je.… kaike.… an s’n boompies.… s’n oarbaie.… gain
blommetjes meer..

Weer was ie, afgebroken de woorden uitstootend, met z’n gieter

langs nieuwe rijzen-laan van sperzieboonen gestapt, [278]wijdbeens
springend, Ouë Gerrit achter ’m aan, om z’n woorden op te vangen.

—Seg Dirk.… veur wá’ hai je de gierskepper nie?

—Goan ’t soo nie? in tait van nood skil je oarepels mit ’n bail hee?

—Moar.… da’ kê soo!.…

—Wa? ke-niet is dood, wille leeft nog!

Dirk was spraakzaam vandaag, lichtelijk opgewonden en vroolijk.

Hij had ’n afspraakje gemaakt met ’n lieve meid, op wie ie lang

geloerd had en die sprekend leek op Geert Grint. Nu zat ’r iets te
gloeien in z’n stom zwoeglijf, iets prikkelheets, dat ’m lollig en
woordwild maakte ’n beetje.

—Nou, bromde de Ouë na,.… hoho!.… ho, moar je hoef je aige.…

ommers nie.… soo te bedruipe.…

Dirk had z’n laatsten gierstraal kletterend in de voor geschuimd,

schurend langs de klompen van den Ouë, die ’m op ’t rijzenpaadje in
den weg drentelde. Stank drong er uit de kruikar, die hooiïg
vergeurde als in omwoelde voren, ’t beervocht schuimig-gretig
wegzoog. Weer was Dirk door nauwe paadjes en smal-beplante
wegkronkeltjes heen-gerend, vlug naar de gier-kar, langs Piet weer,
dien ie toeschreeuwde.

—Nou ke je, aa’s ikke gekrooje hep, de rebarber stukstoote.. goàte

steke, en mest d’rin douë.… aa’s dà nie-en-kan, mó’ je ’t fémidoàg
doen!

—Kaik, nou he’k da senefewerkie!.… die f’rjande redaisbosse.…

kaa’k nou nie van afsnerte, hee?

Piet hurkte op z’n knieën, snel radijsjes uit den grond trekkend,
geplant tusschen lange, jonge regels aardbeien in. Druk wroetten z’n
vuile handen in den grond, zoektastend naar de grootste, die even
de aarde uitkleurden. Dat was z’n laatste dot! Krieuwen kon ie ’r van!
Telkens knelde ie, in warrelige ordening, tusschen vinger en duim, ’t
korte loof van radijsjes samen, drukte de witte en rooie in elkaar,
nijdig wegkijlend knolletjes met te kort blad, en striemde ’r ’n fransch
teentje overheen. Vèrder telkens schoven z’n knieën langs den
regel, [279]groeven z’n klompeneuzen, recht in den stoffigen
zandgrond, lei ie in kort gebaar elk afgewerkt bosje, met rukmoeite
ingesnoerd, achter zich neer op ’t pad. Weer rende Dirk met wagen
vol gier ’m voorbij, Piet nog iets toeschreeuwend, dat ie niet
verstond. Giftiger gromde drift in ’m van peuterwerkje: dat ’t geen
doen was voor kerels.

—Wà bromt die broàsem nou? grom-vroeg ie zichzelf toen hij Dirk
voorbij zag rennen. Met z’n kop ingebukt, z’n neus rakend de
aardbeiplanten, schoof Piet door, verder, verder, tot ie stuitte op een
bed wortelen, waar ie den Ouë, vreemd en in zichzelf hoorde
brommen.

Verlangen kreeg Piet naar z’n kommetje koffie, want anders..

verduufeld als ie end an den dag zag. Z’n knieën brandden, voelden
lammig en zwaar aan, van den eeuwigen kruip, en z’n vingers
pijnden van aardgegrabbel, heet en als gekneusd.

Ouë Gerrit kruiste rond, met z’n armen op den rug. Z’n
uitgewasschen hel-blauwe boezeroen fladderde achter z’n broek uit.
Onrustig loenschte ie over de akkers.
—Hai had wa’ sien.… f’rduufeld.… hai had wá’ sien! ’n prêchtig
mandje stong d’r.… spierwit vlochte.… prêchtig.…! al ’n poos
allainig! Tjonge.… dá’ most ie hewwe.… hoho!.… ho!.… kaik waa’n
snee!—Wá’ faine vlocht.… hu.… hu.… Aa’s tie nou toegreep!.…
Aa’s tie dwars d’r langest gong, langest de greppel.… bai Jan-
buur.… of.… aa’s tie de dorsch veuròm langest gong.… kalmpies.…
huhu!.… hu.… fain werk!.… Aa’s tie.… Nee! dà gong nie! Kaik uit
Ouë.… kaik uit!.… Aa’s tie Jan-buur teuge kwam.… van veure.…
Jesis.… wá’ lekker voelde ie s’n aige nou.… wá’ lekker.… moar
nou.… fain werk Ouë!.. fain werk!.… huhu!.… hu.… Want aa’s tie
deur liep!.… pàl langest de greppel.… most ie de akker van
Spinnekop langest.… en die stong te wieje.… en sain soon te
skoffele.. Enne Dirk dá’ gunters.… kon puur vlak af sien, op sain
poote.… ho.… ho.… en doar an oversai, ’n gaa’st bai de
noàrcisse.… wel wait weg.… moar die doar blomme snaie stonge.…
die twee woare nie mis.… ho.… ho!.… kaik [280]de son skaint pal op
d’r snuit.… die sagge gain snars.… moar aa’s tie.… aa’s tie van ’t sai
langest gong!.…

Dirk snelde weer langs hem, met ’n kruiwagen gier, wielbonkerend

voorbij.

—Hee Ouë.… aa’s je d’rais wá’ veure trok hée?.… gunters bai de
boone.… ikke bin t’met mi dà hoekie kloar!

—Stik, giftte ’t woedend in ouë Gerrit, stik!.… stik!.… f’r wa mó’ tie ’t
nou segge.… wacht.… nou sel die doen.… of ie niks hoorde en kalm
verder loope.…

—Heeoéé Ouë! hoor je nie?.… heeoéé.… of je d’r effe veure trekt,

bai main hoekie boone gunters!.…

Achter de rijzenlaantjes schreeuwde Dirk, waarvan de paadjes

volgesprenkeld vonkten van goudspatjes zonlicht. Nou kon ouë
Gerrit zich niet langer doofhouen. Hoe zou ie zich d’r van af kenne
make, zoo midden in z’n genot en berekeninge. Ho.… ho.…
Kwaadaardig liep ie den greppel terug, ’t rijzenlaantje in, waar
telkens, als windstoot in zoel-wuivenden suizel door geblader van
kantboomen en singel heenwoei, even sterker zonglans tusschen
openingetjes schoot, fijner plengde licht op de groene hagemuren,
rijzentoppen en paadjes, groen-gouïg.

Met angstgevoel in z’n hart, dat straks ’t mandje wel weer weg zou
zijn, was ie voor Dirk komen staan.

—Hoeveul?.… die twintig regels?

—Ja Ouë.… hier!.… neenet!.… begin d’r hier moàr.. Wa’ sien je d’r
pienter uit op hede.—Al meer en meer voelde Dirk zich opvroolijken.
’t Zwaarste werk ging ’m licht van de hand. Stank van beervuil rook
ie niet. Z’n handen grabbelden gretig in ’t smeer, of ’t klaar water
was. Bruin-doffe wasem sloeg naar z’n hoofd òp uit ’t broeiende gier.
En toch, heel diep, zat ’r ’n liedje in ’m te zeuren, wat doffe klankjes
die ’r niet uitkonden.—Nooit zong ie, nooit. Hij wist niet eens of ie ’n
stem had. Nou bleef ’t maar kriegelen in z’n keel en zoetjes vaag
klanken in hemzelf, ’n kermisliedje dat ie half kende; nou dacht ie
aan z’n meid, voor vanavond, in heete opjoelende lol.

Van half vijf in den ochtend stond ie al op ’t land; had Guurt [281]’m op
’t achterend z’n eerste kommetje koffie gebracht. Toen had ’t al in ’m
gevroolijkt en gauw, in warme gedachten, was brood-uurtje en
koffieslurp van half negen voorgedanst.… Nooit nog zoo’n lekker
bakkie weest, aa’s toen!.… Straken-an skoftuur weest.… kostelijk
eetetje.…

Gisteren hadden ze de eerste centen van spinazie gebeurd. Dat was

lol geweest in de kroeg, met Piet. Nou had ie nog ’n duitje achter
gehouen om z’n meid iets te koopen.… Kristus!.… moet den Ouë
wete.… enne op de boot had ie ’n pop verlore mí’ koarte.… most ’t
moar gauw weer ba-hoalt.. mi spoarduit veur kermis.—En voort, in
kroppend gevoel, lolligheid en heetigheid, die stroomen van pret en
lustige doenigheid door z’n voeten en armen joeg, werkte ie af, alles
achter een, zonder opkijken, van één hoek naar den anderen
hollend. Met zenboom op z’n schok-zware schouders geheven, was
ie naar ’n groot brok, hoog-uitgegroeide spinazie geklomp-klost.
Daar kon ie nou mooi maaien, zoo lekker-gelijk in groenen
bladstand, stond ze uitgegroeid.—En sis-scherp, in breed
uitwaaierenden halven kring, sloeg z’n blink-zeis bogen rond z’n
voeten, vlijmde ’t staal, in ’t sappige, versch-geurende
spinaziegroen, dat ie éven lachte van pret, zoo gauw en sneeïg als ’t
ging.—

—Gong tog gauwer aa’s snaiê.… Alleen was ie bang, dat t’r wat an
z’n zen kwam, want haren kon ie niet. En vóórt, vàn de spinazie, die
hij in mandjes overdroeg, bedrijvigde ie weer rond, tusschen de
wortelen en aardbeien, jonge kool en doppers, plantte ie sla uit,
schoffelde en plakte, want alles tegelijk wachtte. Piet was d’r ’n
beetje zenuwachtig van, al werkte ie als ’n beest, zonder opzien,
omdat de Ouë hem den heelen ochtend maar gejaagd had: jullie
komp nie kloar, puur nie kloar!.…

Piet had honderden bosjes radijs neergekwakt bij de pomp, waar

Guurt ’n tobbe water kwam neerschuiven. Met ’n vuil-harigen borstel
raspte ie in ruwe stooten en vegen de knolletjes schoon, spoelde ze
na iederen boen wat uit, in ’t water, dat zanderig zwart modderde
tusschen z’n natte vingers waaraan [282]losgeschoten nattig loof
bleef plakken. Guurt, met ’r zwaar lijf gebukt over de tobbe, hielp
meeboenen, dat de beklonterde knolletjes, glimnattig-rood en geelig-
wit, glanzig te kleuren gloeiden in de zon, op schoongemaakte
klinkertjes, boven ’t bedrupte frissche loofgroen.
—Seg Piet, sou je nog nie d’rais wa’ skoon woater naime.…

—Je laikt puur ’n doàseling!.… se glimme aa’s ’n hooge saaie.… van

domenie.… wou je hullie somwaile poetse?—Guurt lachte, even
uitblazend, met ’r handen plat op d’r dijen gedrukt, armenvleesch
hoog ontbloot, bespat met zandkluitjes en watervuil.

Ouë Gerrit was klaar met z’n voren. Den trekker had ie angstig in ’t
paadje gegooid. Z’n hart bonsde. Hij durfde niet zien of ’t mandje al
uit den greppel weggehaald was. Voorzichtig stapte ie langs de
boonenregels, langs de aardbeien aan greppelkant.…

—Eerst nog erais effetjes de aêre hoek inkaike!.… kaik.… d’r stoàn
g’n sterveling.… moar nou sien!.… Hee!.… nog effe wachte.…
hoho!.… nou langsoam an ommedroaie.. of d’r ’t prêchtmandje nog
stong.… kaik!.…

—F’rek!.… weg!.… weg! heulegoar weg!.…

Stom ’n oogenblik, bleef ie staren met razende drift in z’n borst.—Die

lamme Dirk, dat ie nie effe hep kenne wachte!—Had ie sullie moar
selfers nie soo joagd! soo’n kerel.… Jesis meroakel! nou was ’t weg!
dá’ prêchtige ding! heulegoar weg! Er zat woeste huildrift en
wroegende spijt in z’n borst die ’m verhitte. Hoe kon ie zoo stom zijn
te gelooven dat ’t bleef staan wachten op hem. Dirk, Piet, Guurt,
allen had ie wel kunnen smoren van gift.—En als straks ’m z’n
lamme, suffe wijf in den weg liep, zou ie ’r ranselen, dat ze kreupel
ging. Spuwen, spuwen van drift kon ie, dat ’m die kans ontgaan was.
Als ie nou maar morgen eens uitkeek bij den fotograaf en bij
Bekkema. Nou was ’t weggekaapt voor z’n neus. Twee uur had ie ’r
op geloerd. Maar morgen, morgen moest ie wat hebben, grijpen, als
moest ’r voor hèm in den tuin, ’n dag ’n kerel gesteld. [283]