The Man Who Was Born Again Read online

  Black Mask

  2007

  Paul Busson (1873–1924), Tyrolean and Viennese journalist and author, was well-known in his time as perhaps the finest adventure fantasy in early twentieth-century German literature. The Man Who Was Born Again, story of reincarnated memories in eighteenth-century Germany and France, offers a fine integration of supernatural powers, ghosts, witchcraft, black magic, demons, and evocation of the dead; it is unique in its combination of wild imagination and realism.

  Today, Paul Busson seems to be forgotten in the Germanic world except as a journalist in the memory of a now very old generation. He was never known at all in English. The translations The Man Who Was Born Again and The Fire Spirits went almost unheeded, even though they appeared at a dearth-time of fantasy [late 20s]. Yet these two novels offer inimitable universes, where fantasy assumes such strong actuality that it achieves its own reality. Even after fifty years, in another language, these universes remain viable.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  Chapter Fourty

  Chapter Fourty One

  Chapter Fourty Two

  Chapter Fourty Three

  Chapter Fourty Four

  Chapter Fourty Five

  Chapter Fourty Six

  Chapter Fourty Seven

  Chapter Fourty Eight

  Chapter Fourty Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty One

  Chapter Fifty Two

  Chapter One

  All that I am about to write down, in the hope that by the will of God it may reach the right hands, I, Sennon Vorauf, have experienced in the corporeal existence which preceded the life I am now living. By virtue of a special grace these memories have survived the change that men call death.

  Before I realised that memory had thus carried over from one existence to another, I was oppressed by my recollections and regarded them as inexplicable dreams. Even in my everyday life I used to experience many staggering shocks. It would happen, for instance, that the striking of an old clock, the sight of a landscape, the melody of a song, an aroma, or even a mere combination of words, impressed themselves on my mind, as distinctly as if I had heard, seen, inhaled or otherwise experienced the same thing already; as though this place or that place, which actually I was seeing for the first time in my present existence, had met my eyes in some dim past.

  And sometimes when I spoke to a new acquaintance I had a vague feeling that once he and I must have been on terms of intimacy. Until the great revelation that came to me brought with it my new knowledge I was unable to give any natural explanation of my unbearably strong emotions which had seemed to arise out of very trivial circumstances. My moments of remembrance were so frequent, and the apparitions they evoked became so vivid, that it was quickly impressed on me, even in my boyhood, that they were, in some mysterious way, the reflection of what I had undergone during another existence, before the birth of my present body; for in my “dreams” were recounted strange experiences uncannily alien to my understanding. Never had I heard or read about anything even remotely resembling them.

  Some curious instinct impelled me to make notes of these fantastic dream-happenings. And soon I was able to visualise with extraordinary distinctness and consistency the entire picture of an existence which I lived through before I was born again. I had, it seemed, been a German nobleman, Melchior, Baron von Dronte. When the earthly career of Dronte ended, the soul which now dwells in Sennon Vorauf, my present name, was released.

  The memories of the wild and adventurous existence of Melchior von Dronte shattered all the calm and peace of my life as Sennon come in, as she did every night, to see whether I was asleep or not, and to put out the light. So I hurried back to bed. Just as I was climbing back over the side of my shell-bed with my bare feet it seemed to me that a low voice called me by my name. I looked quickly round in a fright. There, before me, was the Man from the East. And as I stared at him I distinctly saw him move: he lifted an arm under his glass case and made a sign to me. I began to cry from terror. I could only look fixedly at the little figure. Again it beckoned to me, imperatively this time and very impatiently.

  I could not help obeying; but I trembled with fear, and the tears streamed down my cheeks. I wanted to call out aloud. But I dared not, for I feared lest the little man, who was now for once really alive and continued to beckon still more insistently, might get angry, as my mother did. Not for me only, but for the whole household, a single sign from my mother was an order to be instantly obeyed. Therefore I turned from my bed toward the wooden chest where the beckoning dervish stood. I remember that I was still shedding silent tears. My timid, hesitating steps had almost reached him when something terrible happened. Without any warning, loudly crashing and booming, part of the ceiling of my bedroom fell in, the part that was above my shell-bed, and it came thundering down in a cloud of dust, rubble, and splinters.

  The shock of it hurled my little body to the floor, and I fell down screaming. A fragment went whizzing through the air. It missed me only because I was lying low, but it struck the beckoning man of wax and his glass case and smashed them into a thousand pieces. I screamed with all my strength. Everything seemed to be screaming at the moment, all over the house and out of doors by the fountain; and the hounds howled in their kennels.

  Then somebody caught me in strong arms and lifted me from the floor. Blood seemed to rush into my eyes, and I felt a towel pressed against my forehead. I heard the voice of my father, exasperated and savagely scolding, and followed by the groans of a man-servant and the wailing of old Margaret. My father was beating the man with a stick.

  “You fool,” he shouted, “why did you not let me know that there were cracks in the ceiling? I’ll beat you till you’re lame and crooked.”

  But I cried so loudly that my father let him go.

  “The brat can’t bear to see the canaille taught,” he said angrily. “He’ll never grow to be the right sort of man!”

  And he walked out, his spurs ringing. The clatter of my father’s spurs was always more terrifying to me than anything else. I was petted and given sweets to comfort me. A young maid-servant kissed my bare legs.

  “Sweet boy,” she said, and showed me my face in the looking-glass.

  A splinter of glass had struck me just above the nose and made a slight cut between my eyebrows. On my face a scar remained ever after.

  Chapter Two

  One day when I was a little older
, some time after my mother had died, I was playing in the garden with Aglaia, my cousin, who was about my age, and of whom I was very fond. I had made her a wreath of shining, black berries, and I placed it like a dark crown upon her copper-coloured hair shining like gold in the evening sun. She was the Princess, bewitched in a hedge of thorns, and I was struggling to rescue her; black Diana, my dog, played the part of the guarding Dragon, and watched this new game with intelligent eyes.

  Then suddenly through the garden the surgeon passed hurriedly, attended by a maid who carried his brass basin. Stephen, the manservant, greeted him at the house door, urging him to make haste. Aglaia threw aside her crown of berries, and we both ran as fast as we could to our grandfather’s room, which at other times we were never allowed to enter except by special permission. These visits were always very solemn, and took place only on great holidays or birthdays; on such occasions we had to recite little pieces of poetry and were given sweetmeats as a reward. It seemed to us that we had done a very daring thing by entering the severe old gentleman’s room without permission, but curiosity drove us on.

  Grandfather was sitting very calmly in his sleeping chair. He was dressed in his customary habit of grey silk vest embroidered with little garlands of roses, black trousers, white stockings and shoes with large silver buckles. A bundle of glittering things hung on his watch-chain; polished stones, bits of coral, and signets, with which I had sometimes been allowed to play. Near the old man’s chair stood my father. His head was bowed, and he paid no attention to us as we entered. When the lean, shabby surgeon arrived my father grew purple with anger, clutched his arm roughly, and whispered hoarsely:

  “Next time you have the honour of being called for, you damned sleepy-head, you’d better run faster!”

  The wretched surgeon muttered something apologetic in reply as he hastily brought out his bandages and lancets. Then he rolled up our grandfather’s sleeve, touched his eyelids with his finger, and busied himself about his arm, holding the basin to it. He watched awhile. Then he said nervously:

  “It’s no use, your Lordship, the blood will never run again.”

  My father turned away for answer and stood with his face to the wall. Stephen, the man-servant, gently pushed Aglaia and me toward the door and whispered:

  “His Lordship has departed to his forefathers.”

  We looked at him inquiringly, for we had not understood, so he added:

  “Your grandfather is dead.”

  Silently we returned to the garden, listening for any sounds in the house. There was a large room on the right of it where, as a little child (I remembered it perfectly), I had seen my mother lying amid many burning candles. This room, in which all sorts of things were stored, was now being cleared out, and the servants carried in large bundles of black cloth, that showed yellow wax spots and had a musty smell. Our grandfather had been fonder of Aglaia than of me, and often he gave her sugar and candy. He used to keep the sweets in a small tortoise-shell box that smelt of cinnamon and spice. Aglaia cried a little when he died because she knew all this had come to an end, but we both remembered another box, a snuff-box, which we had seen only very seldom.

  It had been given to the old man by the Duke of Brunswick. It bore two lids, and when the inner lid was opened a tiny bird would suddenly appear, all aglow with green, red and violet, and it would beat its wings and pipe and trill like a nightingale. We were never tired of watching the performance, but grandfather would put it back in his pocket as soon as the little lid shut automatically, and would tell us to be satisfied with what we had already seen.

  Now, I thought, we could have a better look at the little bird and even touch it, and so I told Aglaia. At first she was afraid to go upstairs, but I took her by the hand and pulled her after me. We met no one on the stairs, and the room was empty. Empty also was the armchair in which our grandfather had spent all his nights as he approached the end. The medicine bottles with their long labels were still standing on the little table. We remembered that he always used to take the snuff-box out of the middle drawer of a little chest. This chest of drawers was made of different coloured pieces of wood representing ships, towns and ancient warriors; on the drawer we opened two fat Dutchmen were smoking their pipes, and kneeling Moors were attending them. I pulled the ring, but vainly, and it was only with Aglaia’s help that I succeeded in opening the drawer. Grandfather’s lace vests and handkerchiefs lay inside it, and a pile of gold ducats, a large, gold-inlaid pistol, some bundles of letters, his razors, and the little snuff-box with the bird.

  We took out the snuff-box and tried to open the lids. We could not move them. But as we struggled with them one sprang open and a thin metal disc, which was evidently meant to hide something, sprang out. Inside was a little picture, painted in fine enamels. We could make nothing of this picture at first, but it made us forget the little bird. A lady lay on a sofa, with her skirts up high, and a gentleman with a sword and peruque, clothing similarly in disarray, was kissing her. They were doing something that struck us as both comic and weird. A little dog was attacking the man, and this seemed to make the lady laugh. We laughed also, but soon we began to argue about the meaning of the picture.

  “They are married,” said Aglaia, growing very red.

  “How do you know it?”

  I asked, and my heart thumped loudly.

  “I expect they are gods,” whispered Aglaia. “I have seen a picture where the gods were doing the same thing. But they had no clothes on.”

  Suddenly it seemed to us that in the next room, where Grandfather was lying, the floor creaked. We started, and Aglaia cried out in alarm. Quickly I thrust the snuff-box into the drawer and shut it, drawing my cousin away from the room and back into the garden.

  “Aglaia,” I said chokingly, and I caught her by the hand, “let us get married like that too...”

  She looked at me in surprise and terror. Then she snatched her hand away and ran back to the house. Embarrassed and confused I went slowly across to Stephen, who was cutting roses from the bushes and putting them in a basket.

  “Yes, young gentleman,” he said gravely, “that’s how it is with all of us.”

  Chapter Three

  At school I sat next to Phöbus Merentheim and Thilo Sassen. We three were the nobility. Klaus Jaegerle, the whipping-boy, was behind us. Klaus was allowed to learn his lessons with us, and have his meals at the servants’ table, and when Phöbus, Thilo, or I did not know the lessons, it was he who was punished. His mother was a washerwoman, and his father made baskets, though he had only one arm, the other having been cut off by an enemy trooper once when Jaegerle protected Thilo’s severely wounded father with his body.

  This was the reason why Klaus was allowed to learn his lessons with us and eat at the servants’ table. Klaus Jaegerle was diligent, very shy, and cowed; he was obliged to bear meekly all that his schoolfellows chose to inflict on him when they happened to be in a bullying mood. He was treated almost worse, indeed, than the hunchback son of the shopkeeper Isaaksohn, whom the boys had once placed against a door, and then one after the other spat in his face so that the saliva, mixed with his tears, ran over his new collar.

  One day at school I was in a state of great anxiety, for I had neglected to prepare my lesson. It was the French class, and the vicious little French master stood before us in his ink-besmeared, tobacco-coloured coat with its bent leaden buttons, his goose quill behind his ear. He was talking through his snuff-choked nose. His pale face was covered with freckles and moved convulsively all the time. In his left hand he held a book in a green binding and poked the black-nailed forefinger of his right hand at my face. This was a habit of his.

  After studying our faces maliciously for a time he would suddenly bear down like a bird of prey among us, and was sure to alight on the worst prepared of all. At the beginning of a lesson it was his custom to test our Vocabulaire, that is, to fling a few French words at his victim’s face for immediate translation. On this occasion I was his victim.
/>
  “Allons, monsieur,” he hissed. “EmouchoirTonteMean... This instant! Quick!”

  I was so scared that I could only stammer out:

  “Emouchoir fly-flap. Tontesheep-shearing. Mean, mean, that is, that means …”

  He neighed with delight.

  “Ah ha! So you do not know it, cher baron?’ “Meanthis means”

  “Assez! sit down!” he bleated, and his small black eyes glistened with unholy pleasure.

  Slowly he took a pinch of snuff out of a round box put up two fingers to his sharp nose, and then shot out his hand and pointed with the snuff-box at my neighbour.

  “Monsieur Sassen!Don’t you know it either?Merentheim? You also know nothing?Jaegerle, stand up and say it.”

  Poor Klaus jumped up as if pricked with a pen, and said in a shrill voice:

  “Meanit means the salt ponds by the sea, the fifth receptacle, into which the sea-water is made to flow in getting the salt.”

  “Good,” nodded the teacher with an evil smile. “Good. You know it yourself, but as an annex of the nobility in this school I call you sot, paresseux et criminel. Stand out, so that you may get what you deserve as substitute for the ignorant nobility.”

  I became pale with anger. The French master’s injustice toward the poor boy, the only one who had known the meaning of an uncommon word, was more than I could stand. I nudged Sassen, but he only shrugged his shoulders, and Phöbus sat with his nose in the air, as though it was not his business. Klaus Jaegerle came hesitatingly from his bench. Heavy tears stood in his eyes. Burning with shame he fumbled at his trouser belt.

  “Hurry up! Uncover your derriere!” ordered the schoolmaster, waving his heavy ruler. “Take down your breeches that you may get your customary shilling instead of the nobility!”

  With horror I watched Klaus drop his trousers. Two thin legs were visible, and a gray, tattered shirt. The teacher went at the boy with spread claws. I jumped up from my desk.

  “Monsieur, you must not beat Jaegerle,” I cried out. “I will not stand it.”