Telegrams of the Soul

Twelve

“Fishing must be very boring,” said a young lady who knew as much about it as most young ladies.

“If it were boring I wouldn’t do it,” replied the child with the dirty blond hair and gazelle-like legs.

She stood there with the great unflinching solemnity of the fisherman. She took the little fish off the hook and hurled it to the ground.

The little fish died—.

The lake lay there bathed in light and shimmering. It smelled of willows and steaming rotting swamp grass. You could hear the clatter of knives, forks and plates from the hotel. The little fish danced around on the ground a short original fandango like the dance of wild tribes — and died.

The child kept on fishing, with the great unflinching solemnity of the fisherman.

“Je ne permettrais jamais, que ma fille s’adonnât à une occupation si cruelle.” I’d never let my girl give herself over to such a cruel activity, said an old lady seated nearby.

The child took the little fish off the hook and once again hurled it to the ground, at the lady’s feet.

The little fish died—. It lunged upwards and dropped dead — a simple, placid death. It even forgot to dance, gave up the ghost just like that.

“Oh—,” said the old lady.

And yet, in the face of the cruel child with the dirty blond hair you could discern a deepening beauty and the traces of a soul in the making—.

But the face of the noble lady was languid and pale—.

She will no longer give anyone joy, light and warmth—.

That’s why she sympathizes with the little fish.

Why should it die when it still has life left in it—?

And yet it lunges up and drops dread — a simple placid death.

The child keeps on fishing with the great unflinching solemnity of the fisherman. Beautiful beyond description with big, determined eyes, dirty blond hair and gazelle-like legs.

Perhaps one day the child too will pity a little fish and say: “Je ne permettrais jamais, que ma fille s’adonnât à une occupation si cruelle.” I’d never let my girl give herself over to such a cruel activity—!”

But such tender stirrings of the soul only burst into bloom at the last resting place of all dashed dreams, all blighted hopes—.

So fish on, lovely little girl!

As, oblivious to all, you still bear your beautiful birthright buried in your breast—!

Kill the little fish and fish on!