Door klokken bezield

Op 13 september 2019 vergaderde onze afdeling in Den Eyck, Kasterlee. Onze voorzitster leidde de avond in met het voorlezen van de Keure waarna zij gezwind het spreekgestoelte afstond aan Jan Dheedene die  de adelbrieven van het  kandidaat-lid Edgar Biemans voorlas. We onthouden van onze Princelijke aspirant dat hij als Nederlander al dertig jaar gelukkig met  zijn familie in België woont. Taaltechnisch weerhouden we de literaire interesse van Edgar en de expertise in de Japanologie van zijn echtgenote. 

Onze spreker Carl Van Eyndhoven deed qua elan alvast niet onder voor onze voorzitster en NT&C verantwoordelijke. 

Carl Van Eyndhoven (https://www.alfred.edu/mostarts/carl-van-eyndhoven.cfm) is docent onderzoeker aan de Lucas School of Arts en beheerder van het Bela Bartok archief. Hij doctoreerde over 17e eeuwse beiaardmuziek en is natuurlijk vooral gekend als begaafd beiaardier in Mol & Tilburg. Bezieling lag dan ook in zijn visueel en auditief ondersteunde betoog dat  meanderde door sagen (‘klokput’) en muzikale geschiedenis.

Klokken werden een ziel toegedicht, een ziel die een religieuze wijding verdiende (‘Vase de prière’, ‘Une vase cloche’). De bezielde klok kan ook spreken met zijn klepel of ‘tong’ en kond doen van belangrijke tijdingen zoals bezongen in gedichten van Guido Gezelle en Guillaume Apollinaire.

Als rechtgeaard Princelid onthielden we dat klok etymologisch ontspringt aan ‘cloaca’ waarbij een zijsprong het Franse ‘cloche’ en het Engelse ‘to chime in’ oplevert. Bij valavond luidt de klok - ‘the bell tolls’ - het einde van de dag in. Thomas Gray begint dan ook zijn ‘Elegy written in a Country Churchyard’* met ‘The curfew tolls the knell of parting day’, door Carl Van Eyndhoven gepresenteerd als een muzikaal snoepje gezongen door Emma Kirby. Het attente Princelid merkte ondertussen de etymologische verwantschap tussen ‘curfew’ en ‘couvre feu’ in het periBrexit tijdperk op. Carl Van Eyndhoven schetste aan de hand van citaten van John Dome en François-René de Chateaubriand de signaal- en symboolfunctie van de klok. Friedrich Schiller vat deze geest van de klok in zijn poëtische meesterwerk ‘Das Lied von der Glocke’ (Friedrich Schiller, https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Das_Lied_von_der_Glocke). 

De klok eiste overigens al vroeg in ‘sagen’ een prominente rol op. De sage wordt gekenmerkt door localisatie in tijd en ruimte, een historische kern van waarheid, een element van ‘verklaring’ (‘Erklärung’) en speelt leentjebuur in literaire (mythologische) bronnen en de belevingswereld van hallucinaties en ‘zinsbedrog’.
De ‘verzonken klok’ (in een ‘klokput’) werd op deze manier een belangrijk literair motief dat zelfs zijn muzikale weg vond zoals in ‘Die versunkene Glocke’. Vermelden we nog de niet aflatende strijd van Thérèse met den Eyck’s audiovisuele elementen zonder dewelke de muzikale omlijsting onvermeld had moeten blijven. 

 

*Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard
BY THOMAS GRAY

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

         The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,

The plowman homeward plods his weary way,

         And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

 

Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,

         And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

         And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r

         The moping owl does to the moon complain

Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,

         Molest her ancient solitary reign.

 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,

         Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

         The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

 

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,

         The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

         No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,

         Or busy housewife ply her evening care:

No children run to lisp their sire's return,

         Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

         Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;

How jocund did they drive their team afield!

         How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

         Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile

         The short and simple annals of the poor.

 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,

         And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,

Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.

         The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,

         If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,

Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault

         The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

 

Can storied urn or animated bust

         Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,

         Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

         Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;

Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,

         Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.

 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page

         Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;

Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,

         And froze the genial current of the soul.

 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

         The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:

Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,

         And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

 

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast

         The little tyrant of his fields withstood;

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,

         Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

 

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,

         The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

         And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes,

 

Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone

         Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,

         And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

         To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride

         With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,

         Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;

Along the cool sequester'd vale of life

         They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

 

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect,

         Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,

         Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,

         The place of fame and elegy supply:

And many a holy text around she strews,

         That teach the rustic moralist to die.

 

For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,

         This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

         Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?

 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

         Some pious drops the closing eye requires;

Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,

         Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

 

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead

         Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;

If chance, by lonely contemplation led,

         Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

         "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away

         To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

 

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech

         That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,

His listless length at noontide would he stretch,

         And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

 

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,

         Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,

Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,

         Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

 

"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,

         Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree;

Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

         Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

 

"The next with dirges due in sad array

         Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne.

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,

         Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

 

THE EPITAPH

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth

       A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.

Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,

       And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,

       Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:

He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,

       He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

 

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

       Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,

(There they alike in trembling hope repose)

       The bosom of his Father and his God.