Excerpts from
Havoc
By Tom Kristensen
And when Jastrau, his curiosity aroused, reached for a fourth sheet, there were the same three stanzas, neatly written this time, with the date and a signature added. So it seemed that the poem had been completed:
Fear is strong as a Mongol horde.
It is ripened by immature years.
And each day my heart grows heavy,
Foreseeing the continents flooded with tears.
But my fear must be vented in longing,
In visions of horror and stress.
I have longed for the final disaster,
For havoc and violent death.
I have longed to see cities burning
And the races of mankind in flight
A world rushing headlong in panic
From Godīs retribution and might.
Suddenly he turned to look at his sleeping guest. He had a feeling that he was being watched. And sure enough - Steffensenīs eyelids were quivering, and a narrow segment of his eyes could be seen glistening from beneath their lashes. Furthermore, his mouth was now closed.
Then his eyes opened.
"Iīm confiscating this poem for my book page," Jastrau said abruptly, folding the sheet and sticking it in his pocket.
Steffensen suddenly sat up in bed.
"So! Is it good enough for the prostitute press?" he exclaimed, glowering at Jastrau.
"It isnīt always the worst-looking girls who turn out to be whores," replied Jastrau.
"Well - no," Steffensen said slowly. "But let me have another look at it."
"You can look at the rough draft. The other Iīm keeping - right here." He tapped his breast pocket.
Just then Sanders came in with three cups of steaming coffee on a tray, which he placed on the table.
"Look, Bernhard - heīs bought my poem," Steffensen muttered. "The one I wrote last night."
For a moment Sanders glanced from one to the other, then said sourly:
"I wouldnīt say that itīs one of your best."
"No," Steffensen growled in dead earnest. "Im afraid that thereīs too much opinionitis in it."
Sanders had very quietly taken a seat in one of the rococo chairs and was biting his lips. For a moment he was not with them. Jastrau had pulled up a chair and now sat bent forward, looking at Steffensen as if hypnotized.
"What did you mean by that remark - too much opinionitis?"
Steffensen made a face. Jastrau had addressed him as "De," instead of using the more informal "du." "Are we suddenly on such formal terms now - du?" he asked.
"Nonsense," Jastrau snapped. "What did you mean?"
"I meant Iīm not suffering from the same disease as Sanders."
"Youīd do well to pick up some new phrases now and then," Sanders volunteered. "But now drink your coffee. And you can console yourself, Ole, with the assurance that he didnīt mean anything - wasnīt expressing any opinions."
Steffensenīs eyes twinkled craftily. "Why should an artist have opinions?" he drawled.
Jastrau stared at him as if taken off his guard. "Quite so," he agreed cordially. "Or, to put it more correctly, an artist should have opinions, although it doesnīt matter what they are."
From Havoc
The University of Wisconsin Press,
Madison, Milwaukee, and London, 1968
Translated by Carl Malmberg
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