Only then, thinking back, did I remember the point which my imagination had circled for so long. I looked up to the mountain ridge and looked for the gap. It was not visible to the naked eye, but I knew that the place was marked by a power pylon. The place even had a name: it was called Pas de l'Escalette. And below it, in flatter alluvial land, there was a small abandoned hut, shown on the map as the Cabanne de Cézanne.
Something slowed down. The longer I looked at my gap, the surer I wasâof a solution? an insight? a discovery? an inference? a finality? Gradually the gap in the distant crest transferred itself to me and became a pivot.
My first feeling was deadly fearâas though I were being crushed between two strata of rock; thenâif everâone of openness, of a single all-enveloping breath (which could immediately be forgotten). The blue sky over the hilltop grew
hot
. In the densely wooded area beside it, the variegated green of the pines; the dark shadow lines between the branches were rows of windows in a worldwide hillside colony; and then every tree in the forest was separately visible, spinning in its place, an
everlasting
top; and with it the whole forest (and the whole great colony) spun and stood still. Behind it the true and trusted silhouette of Mont Sainte-Victoire, and between it and myself D. in her colors, a comforting human form (for a moment I saw her as a blackbird).
No one threw up his arms in amazement. Someone slowly joined his hands and boldly knotted them into a fist. I would go all out and risk all for all!âI saw the realm of words opening up to meâwith the Great Spirit of Form; the sheltering cloak; the interval of invulnerability; throughout “the indefinite prolongation of existence,” as the philosopher defined time; I had stopped thinking of any “reader”; I only looked at the ground in passionate gratitude. Black-and-white pebble mosaic. Over the stairs leading to the upper story of the inn floated a blue balloon, fastened to the banister. On a table out in the open stood a bright-red enamel pitcher. Far in the distance, above the Philosopher's Plateau, the air was that unusually fresh blue that Cézanne so often used in painting this countryside. Over the mountain face itself, cloud shadows flew as though someone were drawing curtains over and over again, and at length (the early mid-December sunset) the whole mountain stood still in a yellow glow, as though turned to glass, yet did not, as another mountain would have done, cut off my homecoming.
And I felt the structure of all these things within myself, as my armor. TRIUMPH! I thoughtâas though the whole thing had already been successfully written. And I laughed.
Â
Once again D. had thought with me and was immediately able to answer my question about the problem of connections and transition. She had even brought samples of the different materials intended for her coat: brocade, satin, damask.
“So you want me to tell you about the coat. It began with my calling what I had thought up the Great Idea. The coat was to embody it.
“I began with a sleeve. From the start I had difficulty forcing the firm rounded form I wanted on the soft, yielding material. I decided to back the material with a stiff woolen fabric.
“The sleeve was finished. I thought it so priceless, so beautiful, that I despaired of having the same strength for the other parts of the coat.
“I thought of my idea; of nature's moments of tension and sudden softening; how the one merges with the other.
“Every day I thought for an hour or two of the coat I had begun; I compared the parts with my idea and pondered: how was I to go on?
“The upper part was finished. When I started on the lower part, the unity was lost. The pieces I made had no connection with the upper part. At this point the weight of the thick and thin materials I had fitted together made my work more difficult. I had to hold them up in the sewing machine to keep them from slipping.
“I laid the pieces down in front of me side by side; none of them went with the others. I waited for the moment when suddenly my picture would hang together.
“During this time of examining and testing, I could feel myself growing physically weak and incapable. I forbade myself even to think of the Great Idea.
“Pictures and blueprints of Chinese roof construction, the problem of relieving the strain of heavy weights by proper distribution, filled me with excitement. I saw that connections are important no matter what one is doing.
“Then one day I stopped thinking about it and just sewed the pieces together. I made the coat curve inward at one point. It excited me to feel so sure of myself.
“I hung the coat on the wall. Every day, I tried it on. I began to think well of it. It was better than anything else I had done, but it wasn't perfect.
“In making clothes, you have to remember every form you use for reference as the work goes on. But you shouldn't have to quote it to yourself, you must automatically see the final form you are aiming at. In every instance there is only one correct one; the form determines the color and must solve the problem of transition.
“A transition must clearly divide and at the same time bring together.”
I
n the Vienna Kunsthistorisches Museum, there is a painting by Jacob van Ruisdael titled
The Great Forest
. It shows a spacious deciduous forest. In among mighty oak trees one sees the striking white of the birches that are so frequent in Ruisdael. The darkly mirroring water in the foreground is also a familiar feature of his work. Here it is a river ford so shallow that you can see the traces of the yellow sand road, which on emerging turns
left and leads on into the woods. The picture probably takes its name from the dimension of the canvas, because what can be seen of the forest is small; immediately beyond it, an open space begins. It is a forest inhabited by peaceful folk: in the foreground, a wayfarer with hat and stick who has laid down his bundle and is sitting by the roadside; in the background, a man and woman who, lightly dressed and carrying an umbrella (there are grayish-white clouds in the sky), emerge from the curve in the road. But the picture may actually represent a segment of a “great forest”; for possibly the point of view is not outside but inside itâperhaps the wayfarer, as seems quite natural, has turned to cast a last look before going deeper into the woods. The feeling of spaciousness is further intensified by a peculiarity of seventeenth-century Dutch landscapes: for all the minuteness of their forms, they nevertheless, with their patches of water, their roads over dunes, their dark woods (under spacious skies), begin to grow as one beholds them. The trees grow perceptibly, and with them grows a quiet, overall twilight. Even the two horsemen who have stopped to rest grow as they stand there.
There is a forest of this kind near Salzburg; it is not one of those great forests one finds at the edge of large cities; it is no forest of forests; yet it is wonderfully real. It takes its name from the village of Morzg at its eastern edge. The road to it begins in a pass-like hollow between the Mönchsberg and the Festungsberg; known as the Schartentor, this hollow forms a kind of dividing line between the inner city and the southern plain, with its housing developments extending to the foot of the Untersberg. The forest can be seen through the arch at the city limits: a band of apparently tall trees crossing the plain from east to west on this side of the two-humped
rocky hill of Hellbrunn. Though hardly an hour's walk distant, it appears, seen from the city, to be veiled in faint distant blue, as though there were a river in between (actually, the Salzach is farther east). First comes an urban sort of “meadow,” traversed by concrete walks and resounding with footstepsâin the middle of it, all by itself, the former “keeper's house”; in the evening, one of its windows glows with an almost imperceptible inner light and muffled singing can be heard from within; then comes an intersection guarded by three successive stoplights; and then a “quiet zone” (the Thumeggerbezirk), where there are no shop windows to distract one, or any other mark of city life. A brook, actually the arm of a canal, runs parallel to the road, in the opposite direction; sometimes its glitter extends a long way and evokes vague memories. Here most of the trees are birches; they appear to be native to the spot, as in the woods of far-off Russia. The bushes are light-red willows, a tangle of many-armed candelabra when the sun shines through.
The road across the plain rises gentlyâjust enough to make cyclists lift themselves briefly out of their seatsâand then runs level again. The slight increase in altitude makes it possible to speak of a plateau. There is nothing citified about the meadow here; it is an open field with a lone farmhouse in it. A fall wind from the Untersberg that towers in the background is now discernible (on the way back, at a scarcely lower level, the sudden warm stillness of the air is even more evident). Over the strip of peat bog at the foot of the mountain there is often a fine haze, out of which, when it thickens to fog, the crowns of the trees blossom. The meadow in the foreground is also a peat bog; the molehills are black (with white pebbled in them); chickens from the farm, often with windblown ruffs, are scratching about in it. Through
a concrete culvert another small canal passes under the road leading to the next housing development.
The unusual thing about this development is the crooked pines at the entrance to itânot at the edge of the road, but forming an island in the middle of the asphalt, a forerunner to the row of pines which appear, often in a harsh reflected light, at the end of the street. Many of the houses look out on empty fields, this village has nothing urban about it, but neither is it rural. The two rows of houses seem to be marching into the fallow fields. The houses are low, of distinctly different colors, many partly of wood; almost all have espaliers, suggesting raised ornaments, running along their fronts. In part because of the black tundra soil in the gardens and the voices, which often change language from one house to the next, this long, straight street suggests a pioneer settlement in the Far North. Except that here innumerable cats, sauntering noiselessly back and forth between the rows of houses, replace the whimpering, howling dogs chained to stakes.
The row of pine trees at the end of the street proves to be the entrance to a cemetery. Now and then a drunk is shoved out of the nearby inn, stands at the door for a while singing defiance, then suddenly falls silent and goes away. It is a large cemetery. Several parallel paths lead through it to the south. Over them towers a statue of Christ on the cross, whoâas in no existing paintingâis first glimpsed from the side. The paths are long and narrow, and in the archway at the end of them the approach to the Morzg Forest shimmers green. Now and then a slow funeral procession moves past, bells toll, and for a moment a stranger walking behind the coffin becomes a friend or relative of mine.
This approach is a wide, flat, almost treeless meadow,
suggesting a recently dried-up lake; windy and, after the balmy stillness of the cemetery, often wintry cold. Part of it is used for sporting events, and a random passerby may be called upon to play the role of referee. All in all, the children here are more trusting than anywhere else; they draw grownup strangers into conversations about the weather, which usually begin with “Cold today, isn't it?” At one point, one skirts the long wooden poles of a paddock, and on foggy days one seems to be looking through Japanese sliding doors. An old farmhouse has been preserved and fitted out with old-fashioned trappings, a well, a watering trough, a wooden bench, and a great pile of firewoodâbut all that doesn't add up to a farm. Now the forest can again be seen: brown (inky at dusk), and taking up most of the horizon; yet narrow; in places, that is, one can see through to the other side. To the right, high above the forest, the truncated pyramid of the Untersberg; to the left, farther in the background, a jagged cliff which, with its regular fluting, shines in the sunlit haze like a giant scallop shell. The road leads straight into the forest; the meadow is part of it, a vast clearing.
The first indication that one is in the forest (apart from the wooden benches) is the hazelnut bushes with their catkins, which wave in the slightest breezeâfine, densely parallel lines, falling like rain in diagrammatic sketches. The trees are dark, intermeshing spruces; each treeâand consequently the whole forestâis about to start spinning.
A wide, straight roadâapparently the main entranceâleads into the forest. The threshold feeling is a calm that leads one onward without purpose. Once inside, you find that the forest, which looked level from outside, conceals a low chain of hills running eastward (visible from outside the forest only when there is snow
on the ground and the rising ground shows through). The people of Salzburg are familiar with the hill of Hellbrunn, with its park and the castle at its feet; they go there on excursions. But few have heard of the Morzg Forest in between, and hardly any know that a part of this forest lies on top of a rocky hill. Here there are only logging roads and irregular paths, and you seldom see a walker; at the most you may hear a jogger's panting and see the skin of his face, mask replacing mask, change from dead to alive and back again at every step. A picket fence in a large bomb crater; a part of the woodâa circle the size of a face, suggesting yet another maskâseems to have been gnawed by rodents. On closer scrutiny, what seemed to be a wooden partition proves to be a target, and what looked like a bench in front of it is the shooting stand that goes with it. In origin, this rock is closely related to the civilized Hellbrunn hill. In an interglacial period, the melting ice deposited masses of rubble in a Garda-sized lake and with the calcareous water cemented them into the present rocky hill. This one, however, is not nearly as high (perhaps four stories) as the one in Hellbrunn, and scarcely longer than a long city block. In a schematic drawing it would be represented as an escarpment to the south of Salzburg, rising gently and then descending steeply (with sheer cliffs at the top).
From the road, you first glimpse the western foot of the hill and at the same time, like an enclave of color in the mass of spruces, a lighter-colored, almost parklike zone of acacias, alders, and hornbeams, through which a number of possible paths lead uphill; here the only conifers are larches, under which the grass is unusually soft and thick. At the edge of this deciduous copse there is an enormous beech tree. Its roots rise like cliffs, twining around an old boundary stone and almost concealing it.
Directly behind it, still at the bottom of the hill, a water hole is partially hidden beneath a thick layer of leaves. At first sight, one takes it for a rain puddle, but this water is clear and rises in almost imperceptible jets through the blackish leaves from deep underground. It is drinkable (a secret supply in case of emergency). One is struck by the rounded stones under the grass, ordered as regularly and compactly as cobbles in a road. They are many-colored, and on each one the lichens have etched a distinct picture script, as different from one to the next as traditions originating in different continents. A red, bell-shaped hump is a replica in miniature of Ayer's Rock in Australia, the largest monolith on earth. Another shows an Indian hunter's tale. At dusk, when the vegetation above them disappears, these stones reveal their secret writing and become a somber-white Roman road, leading into the forest.
Up the hill the cobbles lose themselves and the Roman road becomes a sunken lane with wagon tracks. The village children have made clay balls, which have dried in the meantime, but now when breathed on give off a fresh smell of rain. Often, when I look up, a lone bird is sitting in a larch tree; small as it may be, it seems strangely large silhouetted against the slender branches of this kind of tree. The rust-brown windward sides of the tree trunks, which point the way from east to west, remain white for a long while after a snowstorm, and it looks as if these trees were all birches. When it rains, there is nothing blacker than the elephant legs of the beech trees.
The gully into which autumn leaves float at any time of year ends at a woodpile; at that point a night-black thicket beginsâthe only place where the forest shows
anything like depth; the black hole tempts one to enter, but not even a child could squeeze through the dense growth. In addition, numerous alders rise abruptly from the ground; these are not trees with trunks and branches but crisscrossing poles (which in a storm are not uprooted but break in the middle); joined and reinforced by creepers, they form a kind of barrier before the underbrush.
This network catches the leaves, which in retrospect stand for the whole forest. They are windblown beech leaves, light-colored and ovalâthe oval shape accentuated by the grooves, which in every leaf radiate from the center to the edge, the color an even light-brown. For a moment, playing cards seem to be hanging on the bushesâand then they are lying on the ground all over the forest, sparkling and fluttering in the slightest breeze, reappearing wherever you goâa reliable game, whose only color is a gleaming light-brown.
The next strip of pines is rather wide-spreading for the species. Through them one sees, hardly a stone's throw away, the steep ridge, which instantly strikes me as “something fought for.” Here the collective cry of a flock of birds flying overhead can sound like a burst of gunfire. Part of the sound is the sharp click of a stone falling somewhere in the silenceâthe ground is covered by moss all aboutâon another stone. The little white clouds flitting between the trees have turned out to be deer escutcheons, more of them with each glance. (They are part of the card game.) Or behind the trees appear the village children's faces, strangely separated from their bodies, like the faces of saints in old pictures. In the spruce woods, often said to be frightening or sinister, it is fairly quiet and dry in time of wind and rain, and palpably warmer than in the open country (powerful
heartbeat when you lean your forehead against a tree trunk). In the course of time, the fallen pinecones begin to shimmer light-brown.
On the hilltop there is neither a panoramic view nor the benches that ordinarily go with one. But the tree roots invite you to sit down and rest, and you can let your legs dangle over the cliff. The city to the north is invisible; to the south, only a broad grassy meadow shows through. The little cliff, as pale gray as a termite's nest (it obviously provided the material for some of the tombstones in the cemetery just crossed), merges directly with the steep southern slope. Here the space between the trees is studded with stones that seem to have been carried down by landslides. At first sight, the white of the many birch trees suggests a snowstorm. In time, the green of the empty field below becomes warm and deep, and extends far beyond the city. Across it cuts a path on which a child once ran after a man, jumped up on his back, and was carried from there on. Another time, a real horseman merged with his horse in the darkness, to form a single gigantic creature. From a distance, the dialect of the people walking down below sounds like all the languages in the world rolled into one.