162
8 In the Meantime in Groningen
Is anything less poetic possible? Still it is interesting, since it shows characteristically his logical philosophical mind! Only epic poetry could charm him. His
favorite song was the Walthari Song, that Germanic song of delightful primitiveness, of fighting and blood, of primeval people with primeval instincts. It
grabbed him and aroused his enthusiasm. Many found this incomprehensible
in him, but precisely his simplicity, that touch of primeval nature, which was
undeniably his own, found satisfaction and ‘Anklang’ [German for appeal] with
this thundering song of the powerful man in his unbridled passions. In many
forms the beauty of life revealed itself to him: he had an unlimited ability to
learn and enjoy. The first flowers and birds were a great happiness for him every
spring. From walks, he always brought the first short-stemmed daisies, which
he put on the table partly shyly and partly overjoyed. Every new bird he heard
brought him in ecstasy and the first swallows were noted on the calendar. ‘In my
next incarnation I would like to be a swallow,’ was his often expressed wish. They
seemed to him the personified, carefree joy of life. Some other time he wished
to become a dandy in a new life. The admiration for a well-groomed appearance
always stayed with him. ‘There is a lot of self-confidence in a elegant appearance’,
he often said. He never reached this ideal; the best he managed was a clean collar
every day.
He could laugh irresistibly, from the bottom of his heart, especially when he told
an anecdote – whether it was the first or the twentieth time he told it, it didn’t
matter – he laughed with the tears in his eyes, and the saddest of listeners forgot
for a moment his black thoughts and laughed along, overcome by this gift and
true merriment of the heart. A wise Frenchman once said these profound words: 2
‘The wise man doesn’t laugh, he smiles.’ Kapteyn knew better. [...]
He also did not condemn the cinema, as was customary in intellectual circles. He
gladly went there with an open mind, looking for relaxation without asking for
deeper values. Why always this destructive criticism of hopelessly superficiality
and inferiority in life? Why does one have to cling so desperately to a life of
superior values? Much more harmful is the deadly criticism that causes everything
to wither away that it touches. One can after all put the draconian and sensational
to the side, like one does with theater or literature. And then enjoy the unlimited
technical and artistic possibilities that modern art offer.
Once, during the fair in Groningen, a tent was put up on the Ossemarkt, just in
front of our house. Every evening we heard the most interesting sounds: gunshots,
cheers, insane clapping of hands and we could not resist, had to go and see and
enjoy the excitement. Sitting in the front row, my father and I watched a foolish
display of stupid detectives who kept falling over and over again, creepy bandits
singing a long song of ‘The birds of the night’ at the most critical moment, as
well as the mildest, most improbable situations. And we laughed and clapped
at so much folly and sang the song of the birds of the night for a long time
2 Le sage ne rit pas, il sourit.
8 In the Meantime in Groningen
Is anything less poetic possible? Still it is interesting, since it shows characteristically his logical philosophical mind! Only epic poetry could charm him. His
favorite song was the Walthari Song, that Germanic song of delightful primitiveness, of fighting and blood, of primeval people with primeval instincts. It
grabbed him and aroused his enthusiasm. Many found this incomprehensible
in him, but precisely his simplicity, that touch of primeval nature, which was
undeniably his own, found satisfaction and ‘Anklang’ [German for appeal] with
this thundering song of the powerful man in his unbridled passions. In many
forms the beauty of life revealed itself to him: he had an unlimited ability to
learn and enjoy. The first flowers and birds were a great happiness for him every
spring. From walks, he always brought the first short-stemmed daisies, which
he put on the table partly shyly and partly overjoyed. Every new bird he heard
brought him in ecstasy and the first swallows were noted on the calendar. ‘In my
next incarnation I would like to be a swallow,’ was his often expressed wish. They
seemed to him the personified, carefree joy of life. Some other time he wished
to become a dandy in a new life. The admiration for a well-groomed appearance
always stayed with him. ‘There is a lot of self-confidence in a elegant appearance’,
he often said. He never reached this ideal; the best he managed was a clean collar
every day.
He could laugh irresistibly, from the bottom of his heart, especially when he told
an anecdote – whether it was the first or the twentieth time he told it, it didn’t
matter – he laughed with the tears in his eyes, and the saddest of listeners forgot
for a moment his black thoughts and laughed along, overcome by this gift and
true merriment of the heart. A wise Frenchman once said these profound words: 2
‘The wise man doesn’t laugh, he smiles.’ Kapteyn knew better. [...]
He also did not condemn the cinema, as was customary in intellectual circles. He
gladly went there with an open mind, looking for relaxation without asking for
deeper values. Why always this destructive criticism of hopelessly superficiality
and inferiority in life? Why does one have to cling so desperately to a life of
superior values? Much more harmful is the deadly criticism that causes everything
to wither away that it touches. One can after all put the draconian and sensational
to the side, like one does with theater or literature. And then enjoy the unlimited
technical and artistic possibilities that modern art offer.
Once, during the fair in Groningen, a tent was put up on the Ossemarkt, just in
front of our house. Every evening we heard the most interesting sounds: gunshots,
cheers, insane clapping of hands and we could not resist, had to go and see and
enjoy the excitement. Sitting in the front row, my father and I watched a foolish
display of stupid detectives who kept falling over and over again, creepy bandits
singing a long song of ‘The birds of the night’ at the most critical moment, as
well as the mildest, most improbable situations. And we laughed and clapped
at so much folly and sang the song of the birds of the night for a long time
2 Le sage ne rit pas, il sourit.