James Fenton(b. 1949)
A German Requiem
(ToT.J.G.-A.)
For as at a great distance of place, that which wee look at, appears
dimme, and without distinction of the smaller parts; and as Voyces
grow weak, and inarticulate: so also after great distance of time,
our imagination of the Past is weak; and wee lose (for example) of
Cities wee have seen, many particular Streets; and of Actions, many
particular circumstances. This decaying sense, when wee would
express the thing it self, (I mean fancy it selfe,) wee call Imagination,
as I said before: But when we would express the decay, and signifie
that the Sense is fading, old, and past, it is called Memory. So that
Imagination and Memory are but one thing . . .
It is not what they built. It is what they knocked down.
It is not the houses. It is the spaces between the houses.
It is not the streets that exist. It is the streets that no longer exist.
It is not your memories which haunt you.
It is not what you have written down.
It is what you have forgotten, what you m u s t forget.
What you must go on forgetting all your life.
And with any luck oblivion should discover a ritual.
You will find out that you are not alone in the enterprise.
Yesterday the very furniture s e e m e d to reproach you.
Today you take your place in the Widow's Shuttle.4
T h e bus is waiting at the southern gate
To take you to the city of your ancestors
W h i c h stands on the hill opposite, with gleaming pediments,5
As vivid as this charming square, your home.
Are you shy You should be. It is almost like a wedding,
T h e way you clasp your flowers and give a little tug at your veil. Oh,
T h e hideous bridesmaids, it is natural that you should resent them
J u s t a little, on this first day.
But that will pass, and the cemetery is not far.
H e r e c o m e s the driver, flicking a toothpick into the gutter,
His tongue still searching between his teeth.
See, he has not noticed you. No one has noticed you.
It will pass, young lady, it will pass.
H o w comforting it is, o n c e or twice a year,
To get together and forget the old times.
As on those special days, ladies and gentlemen,
W h e n the boiled shirts6 gather at the graveside
And a leering waistcoat a p p r o a c h e s the rostrum.
It is like a solemn pact between the survivors.
The mayor has signed it on behalf of the freemasonry.7
The priest has sealed it on behalf of all the rest.
Nothing more need be said, and it is better that way—
The better for the widow, that she should not live in fear of surprise,
The better for the young man, that he should move at liberty between
the armchairs,
The better that these bent figures who flutter among the graves
Tending the nightlights and replacing the chrysanthemums
Are not ghosts,
That they shall go home.
The bus is waiting, and on the upper terraces
The workmen are dismantling the houses of the dead.
But when so many had died, so many and at such speed,
There were no cities waiting for the victims.
They unscrewed the name-plates from the shattered doorways
And carried them away with the coffins.
So the squares and parks were filled with the eloquence of young
cemeteries:
The smell of fresh earth, the improvised crosses
And all the impossible directions in brass and enamel.
"Doctor Gliedschirm, skin specialist, surgeries 14—16 hours or by
appointment.
Professor Sargnagel was buried with four degrees, two associate
memberships
And instructions to tradesmen to use the back entrance.
Your uncle's grave informed you that he lived on the third floor, left.
You were asked please to ring, and he would come down in the lift8
To which one needed a key . . .
Would come down, would ever come down
With a smile like thin gruel, and never too much to say.
How he shrank through the years.
How you towered over him in the narrow cage.9
How he shrinks now . . .
But come. Grief must have its term Guilt too, then.
And it seems there is no limit to the resourcefulness of recollection.
So that a man might say and think:
When the world was at its darkest,
W h e n the black wings p a s s e d over the rooftops1
65 (And who can divine His purposes) even then
T h e r e was always, always a fire in this hearth.
You see this c u p b o a r d ? A priest-hole!2
And in that lumber-room whole generations have been h o u s e d and fed.
Oh, if I were to begin, if I were to begin to tell you
T h e half, the quarter, a mere smattering of what we went through!
His wife nods, and a secret smile,
Like a breeze with e n o u g h strength to carry one dry leaf
Over two pavingstones, p a s s e s f r o m chair to chair.
Even the enquirer is c h a r m e d .
He forgets to p u r s u e the point.
It is not what he wants to know.
It is what he wants not to know.
It is not what they say.
It is what they do not say.