An Old Oil Lamp, Part I of II
Table of Contents
A short story by Hugo de Haan
Translated from the French by Seung Park
Part I of II
A young man who was completely without luck: that was what he seemed like to the few people who knew him at all. For that matter, he was alone in the world — he had the air of never having had parents, and God only knew how he came to be on the earth at all. He had no friends, not male, not female. And one never heard him speak to a soul other than what was necessary for his work, which was actually a mass of incredible drudgery. That is to say: he addressed envelopes. We do not know to whom these envelopes were addressed, and that is not important to us. It suffices that we understand that the man addressed envelopes all day long, as fast as he could, up to 500 addresses a day on some days, and that it was in this fashion that he was gaining a living but losing his soul.
This young man was not handsome by any stretch of the imagination, but he was not at all ugly, either. He was of average height, and, at first glance, had no distinguishing features. His face was not particularly noble or elegant, his forehead was not imposing, and his hair was hardly what could be called luxurious. In fact, you could see him and forget him the very next moment except if, by some incredibly random quirk of fate, you happened to look into his eyes.
And then you would be in for a profound shock, for his eyes were blue, a strange blue, an incredible blue as if a clear sharp flame were dancing in the midst.
But few people indeed ever had the chance to see them, those eyes, because he always kept them fixed downward. On account of his work, probably.
When his day was over, he would murmur a vague farewell to his coworkers and disappear without anyone ever having noticed his departure. That tells you how uninteresting and unworthy of interest he seemed.
On the roads as well, the gazes of the passers-by did not stop on him. And he always went home then, with a not fast, but half-skipping gait.
No one ever saw his footfalls other than his landlady, an elderly woman whose sole interest in him was the modest rent he paid for the attic room he inhabited.
That room matched its occupant to a T: it was ill-furnished and there was not a single figurine or print of a painting in sight — nothing to give personality to all those inanimate objects that do not, in actuality, have a personality or a soul.
And yet, when that young man walked into his room, one would have thought that he had just crossed over the threshold of a magnificent castle like those only seen in fairy tales.
He threw his coat off, letting it fall wherever it may, looked around himself with an air of happiness and sat at his table … to write!
That’s right, the very same man who toiled for hours on end every day addressing envelopes would pick up the pen the moment he got a spare moment — and he’d always end up forgetting to eat as a consequence, too.
But that which was being born from his hands weren’t addresses — oh no, they were notes, quavers, semiquavers, trills, do, re, me, fa … in short, all those cabalistic sigils that had meaning only to those who were versed in the art of music.
So he composed, and he was utterly unrecognizable from the same man who, during the day, scribbled 500 addresses like a robot.
Indeed, he seemed like he was in the throes of some kind of fever. He’d lift his head from time to time and listen; and what he heard was always a bit ridiculous — because the noises that reached his ears were those of a large house that became filled with people as the night descended upon it.
Oh, there was the tinkling of pots, the shouts of the children who laughed or cried, some radio show that screamed so loud that it turned the square into a gargantuan circus. A circus, that was, of base and discordant noises that seemed hardly conducive for our young man’s mind to be giving birth to a beautiful melody or two.
And yet to him, these noises must have held some other meaning for, sometimes, he smiled, bizzarely, and his eyes went all a-sparkle. Then the pen exploded into motion, the little black dots threw themselves onto their staves and the young man hummed along the entire time as he composed.
And therein lies the irony — at the moment, after so much time and patience on our part, that our young hero begins to become interesting to us, his story is already over.
For there was one thing that we should hasten to add here, as it is of great importance: this young man composed under the glimmer — flickering, to be sure — of a candle.
Why? Oh, most certainly, he had electricity in his place, just like everyone else. Perhaps he wanted to save some money? That would have been the most logical explanation for that sad little candle, but for an explanation it isn’t so satisfying to us, is it now?
Then perhaps, for example, our young man had a romantic soul that only the feeble dance of candlelight could inspire to greatness?
It is also possible that he’d read the biographies of the great composers of the past who had genius, but no electricity.
He didn’t have a single book, and his past is a complete mystery to us.
But as a result of writing addresses all day long and notes all night long, his eyes began hurting him.
He would then have no other choice but to hit the light switch. The light was yellow and pale and with that single stroke our young man’s palace had disappeared, and he found himself once again in a bare room as cold as the cell of a monk.
He would try to keep composing, but even he would have to admit that his magic pen had dried out all the sudden; it refused to give even one more note to him, and then the young man would re-light the candle with a sigh and rub his eyes.
One evening, while he was getting out of work, his employer asked him to take an urgent letter to another quarter of the town. For him, this was almost like visiting a foreign country, as he did not seem to know any road except the one that took him from his home to work and back.
He happened to pass through a road the likes of which he had never before seen. It was an alley of antique dealers, and their shops all pressed up against each other, seeming all together like the immense caverns of Ali Baba.
He started admiring all these old things that were out in the open, and then suddenly came to a halt before an object that there were hundreds, if not thousands, of in the world: an oil lamp.
An oil lamp! Here, at last, might be something that could mate the timid romance of the candle with the glaring clarity of the electric bulb! Yes, but how much did it cost, this oil lamp?
He hesitated for a long time, and when he finally stepped into the shop to find the shopkeeper, it must be said that it took all the courage he had. That which for anyone else would have been a normal act had been, for him, an unusual act of daring.
It is time for us now to take our eyes off the young man with the lowered eyes and to gaze upon the old shopkeeper who was looking straight at him instead.
This was a very old man indeed, who seemed only a few months away from his hundredth birthday.
He was small, and his head was bent forward a little bit, as if he were deaf, but he was not deaf. He was not blind, either, quite the contrary, in fact. One could not see his dark eyes as they disappeared behind masses of wrinkles, but those eyes of his? They could see us quite well.
He contemplated the young man with something other than the politeness due to a customer, no matter how poor he might be. For the young man had raised his head and his blue eyes had been caught by the dark eyes of the old man.
–What would you like, young man? he asked with great kindness.
–Uh … I … I, uh, saw a lamp in your window.
–A very old oil lamp, yes … very ancient indeed … you noticed that its base is in ornately decorated brass, did you not …? I shall go find it for you.
–But …
The old man was already trotting about his shop, as agile as a mouse who knew all the corners of its attic. He came back with the lamp, cradling it as if it were an object of some great value. He placed it gingerly on a small table where, suddenly, it seemed to come alive with beauty and importance.
–Come … look …, said he. Examine that base. Why, that pattern, you would never find it again anywhere … see how delicate and graceful it is … you could spend an eternity tracing the line of the design … you would lose yourself in it, like you were in a labyrinth …
–Um, okay, the young man said, I see. But nonetheless, it’s nothing but an oil lamp, right?
–In a sense, you are correct.
–How much for it?
–Oh …
There was a long silence as the old man pretended to stare down at his shoes. But he was actually looking down at the feet of his customer, down at his shoes where they had been worn down to the heels.
Then he cleared his throat.
–For you … uh … this lamp will only set you back 150 francs …
The young man jerked to attention.
–150 francs … I could never spend that much money on a simple oil lamp. Too bad … I’m sorry for having disturbed you, sir …
–One second, said the old man. Why do you want this lamp? Are you a collector?
–Heavens, no! To light my room, that’s all …
–In a city like ours, doesn’t everyone have electricity these days?
–Yes …
–But?
–It is difficult to explain.
–You seem to be nervous and timid about something, said the old man. Please, take a seat for a few moments. It is not just an ordinary stool I am offering you, after all, he continued with a smile, but a fauteuil à médaillon. That doesn’t mean very much to you, I know, but it will make you comfortable so you can catch your breath and tell me your story.
To be concluded in Part II
Comments
DJ @ May 25th, 2006 | 11:05 am
I can’t wait for part II.
Anonymous @ May 29th, 2006 | 1:51 pm
Looking forward to part II as well. Thanks.
Ralph Smallen @ December 15th, 2006 | 3:38 pm
For fountain pen collectors, this would be a good read. When will you have part II?