Original by Ranier Maria Rilke - Translated by Lore Confino
THE STRANGER
A man who is unknown to me sent me a letter. This stranger did not write to me about Europe, or about Moses, or about the great and the lesser Prophets; not about the Emperor of Russia or Tsar Ivan the Terrible, his terrible predecessor. He did not write about the Mayor or his neighbour Flickschuster; not about the nearby town or those far away; and not even the forest with its many deer, in which I lose myself each morning, was mentioned in his letter. He did not tell me about his dear mother, or his sisters who, I assume, have long been married. Perhaps his mother is dead; how else is it possible that not once was she mentioned in his letter! He showed me a far greater trust, he made me his brother, he told me of his need.
The stranger has come to me at eventide. I do not light a lamp. I help him take off his coat and ask him to have tea with me since it is the usual hour of day when I take tea. One must not impose any kind of restraint upon oneself at such intimate visits. When we are about to sit down at table, I notice that my guest is uneasy; his face shows great fear and his hands are shaking.
“Well,” I say, “there is a letter for you here, “ and I busy myself with pouring tea. “Do you take sugar, lemon, perhaps. I learned to drink tea with lemon in Russia. Would you like to try?”
I then light a lamp and place it in the far corner fo the room, a little raised so that the room remains in semi-darkness, only cosier and giving a reddish glow. And then it seems that the face of my guest has become more composed, warmer and much more familiar. I greet him again with these words:
“You know, I have been waiting for you a long time.” And before the stranger has time to be surprised I explain, “There is a story I wish to tell none other than yourself. Do not ask me why, only tell me if you are comfotably seated, if your tea is sweet enough and if you wish to hear my tale.”
My guest had to smile. He answered simply, “yes.”
“Yes, to all three questions?”
“Yes, to all three.”
“We leaned back in our chairs simultaneously so that our faces were hidden in shadow. I put down my glass of tea, took delight in its golden lustre, slowly forgot about the pleasure it gave me and asked quite suddenly: “Do you still remember God?”
(missing part of transcript)
Good,” I thanked him, ’because this is just what my tale is about – about God. But first tell me, do you sometimes talk with children?”
“It happens, in passing, at least...”
“Perhaps you have heard that on account of the disobedience of his hands, God does not really know what the finished human being looks like.”
“ I have heard it (said) somewhere, but cannot remember who by, “ my guest answered, and I saw uncertain memories passing across his brow.
“All the same,” I interrupted his thoughts, ‘listen further. God put up with this uncertainty for a long time because his patience was as great as his strength. It happened though, when thick cloud lay between him and earth for many long days, that he hardly knew any more whether he had dreamed it all – world and men and time. He summoned his Right Hand who had been banned a so long time from his sight and had hidden away in small unimportant works of creation. She hurried willingly into his presence because she thought at long last God would forgive her. When God saw her before him in all her beauty and youth and strength, he was tempted to pardon her but he remembered in time, and commanded, without looking at her:
“Go down to earth. Take on the human form you see amongst men and stand naked on the summit of a mountain so that I can closely observe you. As soon as you arrive there, go to a young woman and tell her, but very quietly: ‘I want to live’. You will find yourself enveloped first in a small darkness and then in a large darkness which is called childhood. Then you will become a man and climb the mountain, as I have commanded you. All this is but a moment in time. Farewell.”
The Right Hand took leave of the Left, called her by many tender names; it is even said she bowed low before her and called her ‘Holy Ghost’. But already Saint Paul approached, severed the Right Hand from God; an Archangel caught her and carried her off under his loose cloak. God covered his wound with his Left Hand so that his blood would not stream across the stars and fall in sad drops upon the earth.
A short while after, God, who was watching events carefully, noticed that men clad in iron were busying themselves around a particular mount more than at any other, and he expected his Right Hand to climb upon it. But there came one only, one clothed in a red cloak, unsteadily it seemed, dragging something black up the hill.
At the same moment, the Left hand of God, which lay before his open wound, showed signs of restlessness and all of a sudden, she left her place and erred distraught amongst the stars crying out:
“Oh, poor Right Hand, and I cannot help her!” And she pulled at God’s left arm where she hung at its extremity, and tried to become free. The whole world turned red with the blood of God, and one could not see what was happening beneath. God almost died then. With his last strength he called back his Right Hand and she returned , pale and shaken, and lay down in her place like some sick creature. But even the Left Hand of God who seemed to know of what was happening when she recognized the Right Hand of God climbing the mountain in her red cloak, could not find out what else had happened there. It must have been something very terrible, because God’s Right Hand has still not recovered, and she suffers no less from this memory, than from the previous wrath of God, who has still not forgiven his hands.
I let my voice rest a little. The stranger had hidden his face in his hands. For a long time we remained like this and then the
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“Yes, “ I said in answer to his silent gaze, “I often think God’s hand is again among us.’
The children have heard this story and it was obviously told in a way they understood, because they liked it.