The
Prose of Alfred Lichtenstein
Translated
by Sheldon Gilman, Robert Levine, and Harry Radford
The
Winner
Max Mechenmal was an independent
manager of a newspaper kiosk. He ate and drank well; he had relations with many
women, but he was careful. Because his salary was insufficient, he occasionally
permitted himself to take money from Ilka Leipke. Ilka Leipke was an unusually
small, but well-developed, elegant whore, who attracted many men and women with
her bizarre nature and apparently silly ideas, as well as with her actually
tasteful clothing. Miss Leipke loved little Max Mechenmal. She called him her
sweet dwarf. Max Mechenmal was angry all his life that he was small.
Max Mechenmal came from an unfortunately
impoverished family. He had enjoyed an excellent education in an institution
for retarded children until he was forcibly dismissed at a very early age. The
reasons for his dismissal were not available; it seemed to have more to do with
the poverty of Mechenmal's relatives than with the fact that he was clearly
unbearable. For a while he wandered about homeless, since his family no longer
took any interest in him. He supported himself mostly by petty larceny. Once
the police picked him up and he was brought to a home for neglected children.
In the home he was trained as a locksmith. He knew how to ingratiate himself
with his superiors by showing unusual dexterity and willingness. He secretly
tormented his younger, weaker comrades, or he set the stronger ones against
each other. He had no friends; when he had completed his training and was
released, the others were happy.
The unusual skill that Max
Mechenmal, because of his technical gifts, had developed in making keys and
opening difficult locks he would very gladly have used for breaking and
entering, and burglary; he would have liked to have become an infamous burglar.
The proceeds from the burglaries would have permitted him to dress elegantly,
to show off with the finest women. The sickening, massive fear of being caught
prevented him. He was content to seduce the daughters and servants of the
masters for whom he worked, and to commit occasional burglaries that involved
little risk. His ambition remained unsatisfied.
By chance the direction of Mechenmal's
life was changed. At the end of a day's work, tired and in a bad mood, he was
walking the streets. Lights were scarcely visible, although it was very dark.
In an elegant ground-floor room, an elderly lady was arranging the fold of her
body.
In front of a basement, dirty little
girls were singing the song of the Lorelei. The windows were etched into the
pale, sleeping houses like black panes with bright crosses. The conglomeration
of houses resembled large, venturesome ships, which lay at anchor or were
gliding to a distant, beckoning sea. The little locksmith thought about the
last six women he had loved. His attention was attracted by the hideously
ringed eyes of a horribly hunch-backed gentleman who smilingly, with marked
pleasure, although somewhat fearfully, was looking at him. The locksmith
thought: hm -- for fun, he remained stopped; with his clear eyes, which shone
like polished black buttons on his face, he slyly watched the even smaller
gentleman. Embarassed, he took his hat off his head and spoke, stuttering, said
that his name was Kuno Kohn, and excused himself -- little else could be made
out. The hunchback hid part of his face behind thin fingers, coughed, and
quickly moved on. The locksmith thought: hm, and went on his way.
Then there was a tug on his arm. He
turned his face: the hunchback again stood next to him, still somewhat
breathless from moving quickly. Kuno Kohn was very red, but he could, without
stuttering, say: Excuse me for causing you more trouble. I always know
afterwards what I want to say." This he spoke extremely loudly, to
overcome his embarassment. Then he said: "Perhaps you have the time ...
perhaps I may invite you to look for a restaurant with me ...or may I assume
that you have not yet eaten this evening." The locksmith was not against
the idea.
In a huge tavern, Kuno Kohn ordered
food and beer for Max Mechenmal. He himself did not eat, and he drank little.
He enjoyed watching how pleased the locksmith was. Later, probably, he
sometimes stroked him timidly on the chin. That pleased the locksmith. At first
they spoke of the misery of being alive, of the injustice of fate. After
Mechenmal drank his third glass of beer, he boasted of his beloved. That was
unpleasant for the hunchback. Up to that point he had permitted the locksmith
to talk. And his interest was indicated only by the fact that he shut his blue
eyes theatrically and approvingly, as a result of which, for a few seconds,
only miserable shadows were visible, or he slowly shook his shapeless head, or
he pressed his nervous fingers sympathetically against Mechenmal's leg. Now he
began to express his own opinions. He cursed women. His voice seemed at every
moment to crack with excitement. He contended that anyone who had the
misfortune to be a woman must have the courage to be a whore, that the whore is
the essential woman, and that relations with women, incidentally, are more or
less degrading. When they left the tavern, Kuno Kohn placed the hard, miserable
bone that was his lower arm upon Mechenmal's thick, flabby lower arm. A gold
bracelet struck the hunchback's wrist. On the way Kuno Kohn asked Mechenmal to
spend the night at his place. The locksmith agreed to the request.
Kuno Kohn lived in a large, ordinary
room, in a summer-house on a side street in the western section. However, the
bed was exceptionally wide, almost ostentatious. On the pillow lay yellowish
and red flowers. In front of the window stood a writing-table on which there
were some books -- perhaps Baudelaire, George, Rilke. Near it and on it lay sheets
of paper, which were apparently covered with finished and unfinished poems and
treatises. On a shelf at a window stood volumes of Goethe, Shakespeare, a
Bible, and a translation of Homer. On the table and chairs lay perhaps
newspapers and pieces of clothing. Somewhere lay yellowed photos of old people
and children. The locksmith looked at everything with curiosity.
They soon sat down. The
conversation, which was lively at first, gradually faltered. Kuno Kohn turned
the lamp down. Later he spoke softly and imploringly to the locksmith. Then he
offered him the bed. He himself would sleep on the sofa. The locksmith agreed.
Kuno Kohn arranged for a subordinate
position for his friend Mechenmal at a newspaper publishing office. Mechenmal
picked up his new trade with surprising swiftness, and very soon obtained
sufficient knowledge of salesmanship. He changed positions and managed, by
means of energy and all kinds of dirty tricks, after a year and a few months,
to hold a position of trust as an independent manager of a newspaper kiosk.
II
Because he had a pleasant way of
speaking as well as a face that looked like that of an intelligent doll, the
former locksmith soon had won a very large number of steady customers, for the
most part female. In the morning a dozen saleswomen from a nearby department
store,
having purposely arrived too early,
gathered around his kiosk to enjoy the dirty jokes and cheerful comments of Mr.
Mechenmal. The bank officer Leopold Lehmann, who always arrived punctually at
eight o'clock, to buy illustrated joke books and theological tracts, sometimes
became impatient, because the cheerful saleswomen disturbed him as he tried to
make his selection. And the school-teacher Theo Tontod, who tirelessly, and, as
a rule, uselessly asked for the modern newspaper, "The Other A,"
often got to school too late. Around noon, almost every day, the choral-singer
Mabel Meier came, on the arm of an old man. She bought colorful, spicy
newspapers, or sentimental ones, with long lyrical poems. The old man, who
always had a whining expression, sighed as he paid. She was reserved with
Mechenmal. At odd hours, Mieze Maier, a teen-ager. also came, and asked whether
Herr Tontod had been there. Once Mieze Maier remained longer; from that time on
she did it more frequently. Sometimes a fat, agreeable servant-girl of the
salesman Konrad Krause was at the kiosk. She said to Mechenmal that he was
good-looking, that he had passionately dark eyes and a kissable mouth, asked if
he had time on Sundays to go dancing -- she liked him very much. Mechenmal
answered that he would not object to satisfying Miss Frida's inclination
occasionally. The servant girl reminded him embarrassingly often of his
promise. -- Every Tuesday afternoon a certain Mr. Simon, who lived in an open
sanitarium, and was always accompanied by an attendant, asked for the magazines
for undertakers; if there were not enough available, he went off peeved,
cursing the crematorium. -- Kuno Kohn also came a few times every week, rarely
to buy something, mainly to visit his friend and to make an appointment for the
evening rendez-vous. - Students, ladies, officers, workers bought their
newspapers. Only Ilse Leipke, in spite of Mechenmal's repeated requests,
refused to come to the kiosk.
This was a whim of Ilka Leipke. She
had much time for herself and complained to her beloved many times that the
days were more boring than the nights. Ilsa Leipke also loved her sweet dwarf
no less than in the early days of their acquaintanceship, even though Mechenmal
was increasingly high-handed and nasty in his treatment of her. It went so far
that he enjoyed it when she cried; he was never content until he had brought
her to tears. Then it gave him pleasure to comfort her. Afterwards, however, he
was very good to her; basically, he loved her. He let Ilka Leipke caress and
kiss him. He was a bit larger than she, but she held him on her young body like
a child. They told stories to each other. They laughed. They kissed. They often
went over the story of the way they met. They discovered thousands of new
details, or made something up because it was fun. The girl found, a box in
which small items lay, a clipping from a newspaper, which read like this:
marriage
request
A young,
somewhat small, very good-looking man, tired of
being alone,
is looking for a similarly inclined lady, with
honorable
marriage in mind. Money an advantage.
Send
friendly replies to Max Mechenmal.
Or Mr. Mechenmal took out of his
wallet a blue letter with violet red spots, which he held out smilingly to the
girl. Miss Lepke then read it well, in a gentle, loving voice:
Very honored gentleman!
Read your request for marriage. To
my regret I cannot
supply capital. For my part I could
do without the
marriage, of which I have no need
yet. I am by trade a
woman. I am small (but wow!). I am
tired of having boy friends
and therefore am looking for a
relationship with a steady
man. If you find my proposal
agreeable, please send me
a photo of yourself. I remain your
devoted
Ilka Leipke
When they had embraced and kissed
enough, they made up games. Ilka Leipke showed great talent in showing the
happily giggling Mechenmal how her friends would behave in corresponding
positions. She bent herself into the most surprising positions. She grimaced
comically. Mechenmal was able make up fictitious names by the hour, with which
he could make reference to certain parts of her body in the presence of other
people, without their being able to tell what he meant. So the evenings and the
nights that Ilka Leipke had set aside for her friend went by. Often Mechenmal
did not have the time to go home. Then she got up, if he was still asleep. Made
coffee. In her slippers, dressed only in an old evening wrap, she went out and
got pastry from a baker. She placed a white cloth on the table. She arranged
everything in an appetizing manner. She prepared some sandwiches for him to
take with him. She disappeared again into her bed, where she slept well into
the afternoon. Mechenmal, however, somewhat sleepy and weary, but in a good
mood, hurried off to his kiosk.
III
Late evening crept like a spider
over the city. In the light of Kohn's little lamp the upper torso of Kuno Kohn
was a bit bent over the table. On the sofa, breaking the circle of lamplight
and stretching beyond it, lay Max Mechenmal, half in the dark. Windows
glittered in lush, flowing
black. Swollen and blurred objects
rose up out of the darkness. The open bed shone with a whiteness. Kohn's hands
held papers with writing on them. His voice sounded gentle, dreamy, singing
with feeling. He often became hoarse, and coughed like someone who had read
much. One could hear: "The old, splendid stories about God have been
slaughtered. We must no longer believe in them. But the knowledge of misery
drives us to need to believe -- the longing for new, stronger belief. We are
searching. We find nothing anywhere. We torment ourselves because
we have been helplessly abandoned.
Why doesn't someone come, teach us non-believers, who thirst for God."
Kohn was quiet, full of expectation. Mechenmal had secretly been amused during
the lecture. Now he broke out. Then he said: "Don't take this wrong,
little Kohn. But you certainly have funny ideas. This is really crazy."
Kohn said: "You have no feeling. You are a superficial being. It is also
certain that you are a psychopath." Max Mechenmal said: "what do you
mean by that?" Kuno Kohn said: "You'll find that out soon
enough." Max Mechenmal said merely, "Ah, so." He was angry that
Kuno Kohn had called him superficial. He thought of Ilka Leipke.
Then Kuno Kohn said: "Death is
an unbearable thought. For those of us who are without God. We are damned to
live through it in advance hundreds of nights. And to find no way past
it." He became very quiet. Mechenmal wanted to show his friend Kohn that he
too could express himself about perverse problems. He thought it over, and
said: I have different version, little Kuno, little Kohn. However, it is an
emotional matter. I also tell myself thank God for those who have no God. God
is nonsense. To waste a word on the topic is unworthy of a thinking man. But
listen, I have no need of God -- not in life, not in death. Death without God
is very beautiful. It is my wish. I think it's wonderful simply to be dead.
Without heaven. Without rebirth. Utterly dead. I'm can't wait. Life for me is
too hard. Too stimulating.."
He wanted to speak further. There
was a knocking at the door; Kohn opened it. Ilka Leipke quickly came in. She
said: "Good evening Herr Kohn. Excuse me for disturbing you." She
screamed at Mechenmal: "So, I catch you here. So. for this you have
abandoned me. You're only using my body. You have never grasped my soul."
She wept. She sobbed. Mechenmal tried to calm her down. That irritated her even
more. She shouted: "To betray me with a crippled Kohn ... I'll report you
to the police, Mr. Kohn. You should be ashamed of yourselves, you
swine..." She had a crying fit. Kuno Kohn was incapable of responding.
Mechenmal pulled her up from the floor upon which she had thrown herself
screaming. He said with a changed, stern voice, that her behavior was unseemly,
that she had no grounds for jealousy, for after all, he had no obligations.
Then Ilka Leipke looked at the hunch-backed Kohn humbly, like a beaten little
dog. She was very quiet. She followed the angry Mechenmal out the door.
When Kohn was alone, he gradually
became enraged. He thought: such a rude person ... and at intervals: How upset
the cow had become. How jealous she is of me. One of the few women who please
me ... and she goes and chooses the little animal Mechenmal. That is atrocious.
Early the next morning Kuno Kohn
stood in Miss Leipke's drawing-room, trembling like an actor with stage fright,
When the maid brought Kuno Kohn's card, Miss Leipke was reading the forbidden
pamphlet, "The suicide of a fashionable lady. Or how a fashionable lady
committed
suicide." Her eyes were filled
with tears. When she had finished reading the entire pamphlet, she freshened
her make-up. Finally, covered only by a silk morning-coat, she appeared in the
drawing-room. Kuno Kohn was red up to his ears. Groaning, he said that he had
come to apologize for yesterday's scene, that Miss Leipke did him wrong, that
she knew him too briefly. He had, after all, inner worth. Then he spoke in
praise of his friend, the worthy Mechenmal; but he did not disguise the man's
lack of a refined inner feeling about life. Miss Leipke looked at him with
beguiling eyes. He turned the conversation to art. Then he turned the
conversation to her legs; she said frankly that she too liked her legs. She had
lifted her morning-coat somewhat. With his shy hands, Kuno Kohn carefully
lifted it higher --
That evening Kuno Kohn sat dreamily
in his room. He looked out through the hole made by the open window. In front
of him the gray inner wall of the house dropped a short distance. With many
quiet windows. There was no sky, only shimmering evening air. And a gentle,
occasional breeze, which could scarcely be felt. The wall with the windows was
like a lovely, sad picture. Kuno Kohn was surprised that it was not boring. He
stared steadily and deeply into the wall. It seemed kind. Friendly. Full of
loneliness. Secretly he thought: the wind against the wall is doing this. He
sang inwardly: Come, be... loved -- a bell startled him.
The postman brought him a letter
from the Clou Club. The Clou Club requested Mr. Kohn to read from his works on
a certain evening.
IV
Eight days before the appointed
evening a placard went up on the city's pillar for notices. On it was written:
Announcement
Kuno Kohn will read from his own
works at the
Clou Club. Young girls and lawyers
kindly requested
not to attend.
As the evening approached, Kuno Kohn
became increasingly agitated. Two hours before he had himself shaved. When the
man asked whether the gentleman wanted powder, Kohn shook his head no, but
said: "yes." An hour before Kohn went into a police station and asked
for ten five-pfennig stamps and a ten pfennig postal card. (tr. - thinking that
he is in the post-office).
When Kohn stepped on the podium, he
became calmer than he had expected to be. First he made a slip of the tongue,
but then his voice gradually became firm and clear. Very few people were in the
little hall, but some critics from the large, influential newspapers were in
attendance. The next day one of them declared, in the widely circulated Alten
Buergerzeitung, that the poems the poet Kohn, who enlists our sympathy
because of his physical handicap, brought to the attention of a sparsely
attended hall were not yet ready for publication; however, one might expect
something from his muse when Kohn has matured. Another declared, in the Journal
for Enlightened Citizens: the overall impression is pleasing, but the poems
are not all of the same quality. In addition, the poet had not read well. But
the first line of the first verse of the poem "The Comedian" was
movingly pithy in expression and feeling.
After the reading, the president of
the club, the gifted Dr. Bryller, thanked the poet, whom he called a budding
genius. One of the few whom he personally knew. In spite of the ban against
young girls, Ilka Leipke had somehow managed to gain entrance. Mechenmal, who
had at first said that he would not come, also appeared. At the break, however,
he said that he was hungry, that he was going, and hadn't she had enough of the
nonsense. If she did not want to come with him she could stay. She seemed
suddenly interested in Kohn's hunch-back. He wished her much luck, asked if he
should play the pimp, and left. Ilka Leipke cried a bit, and remained until the
very end. She applauded enthusiastically. On this evening she loved Kohn. In a
strange mood she took him to her place.
Towards morning a small,
hunch-backed gentleman skipped like a ballet dancer along grey, uncertain
streets...
Kuno Kohn from now on avoided
meetings with Mechenmal. He no longer invited him. He bought newspapers in
another kiosk. That suited Mechenmal just fine. His beloved had told him, with
a provocative smile, that she had spent a lovely night in her bedroom with the
hunch-back.
The hump had not been unpleasant for
her; it was not as big and hateful as it seemed to a superficial observer. One
could easily become accustomed to the hump.
Mechenmal was furious at Kohn. He
was gentler and more indulgent towards Ilka Leipke. He did not show her his
jealousy, and never mentioned the rival's name. Ilka Leipke was happy. She no
longer thought of the drunken night with Kohn. Kohn was now no less repugnant
to her now than he had been before; she rejected further attempts by the poet.
She acted towards Mechenmal as though she were still very much in love with
Kohn. Once, however, she could not repress making an unseemly joke about Kohn
and his hump. Mechenmal laughed heartily.
Sadly, Kohn went to the shore. A publisher
had made an unexpected, favorable offer, and paid an advance. Mechenmal
happened to find a poem that Kohn sent from the shore to Ilka Leipke. He read:
Song
of Longing
The folds of the sea crack like
whips on my skin. And the stars of
the sea tear me open. The ocean's
evening is lonely from screaming
wounds. But the lovers find the good
death of which they dreamed.
Be there soon, sorrowful eyed woman.
The sea hurts me. Your hands
are cool saints. Cover me with them.
The sea is burning on me.
Help then ... please help ... cover
me. Save me. Cure me, friend.
He destroyed it. Ilka Leipke was
enraged. She said that Mechenmal was coarse. The little man had soothed her
with loving caresses. Later he sat down at the girl's writing-table. He took a
piece of stationary and wrote:
To Kuno Kohn.
Miss Leipke, my bride, hereby lets
you know that she gladly
gives up any further poems; they
serve no purpose at all.
My bride has told me everything. Be
assured that your
courtship makes us laugh.
Max Mechenmal
When Mechenmal had mailed the letter
he became restless. He was afraid that he had handled things carelessly.
Kohn came back immediately. He went
to Ilka Leipke. Showed her the letter. Howling, he asked whether she had
forgotten the night with him. She said: "yes." He moaned. He wept
unintelligibly about soul and suicide. Ilka Leipke showed him out. His weakness
was annoying to her; even as a child she could not watch anyone cry.
But she was angry at Mechenmal. She
began to tease him about Kohn. She claimed that Kohn had often been her guest;
and she always found him to be nice. Mechenmal considered her stories to be
true. Now he hated Kohn.
He considered how to get of the
hunch-back, without being known as the one who got rid of him. It did not take
him long to come up with a plan. Kohn died on a Sunday, suddenly, but without
strange circumstances. His body was released for burial without any difficulty.
In the newspaper "The Other A" Theo Tontod provided a short obituary.
And the Club Clou sent a wreath. Ilka Leipke had herself taken to observe the
body before the burial. The coffin was opened quickly. In it Kohn lay somewhat
askew, because of the hump. The features of his face were distorted in a
grimace. His hands were rolled up lumps. Dried blood stuck to his nose and hung
over his opened mouth. Ilka Leipke overcame her disgust. She had gasoline
brought, took a little silk scarf out of her dainty handbag and dipped it in
the the gasoline container. She cleaned the dead nose with the little scarf.
Then she left. Calm and weeping. Content with her goodness.
When Mechenmal heard of Kohn's
death, he was very frightened. He could not bear his room. He left the house
quickly, not without first having lit a cigarette. Church bells were ringing
from the sunny sky. Mechenmal was cold and pale. He kept thinking: if only it
doesn't come out. Or he considered where he might run away. He thought of the
trial, of the defense, of prison, chains, letters written to the outside world,
the hangman. That he would, as his last wish, be allowed to sleep with Ilka
Leipke one more time. He moved through the streets like someone trying to catch
up to someone. When it occurred to him that he should not call attention to
himself, he suddenly began to walk too slowly. It seemed to him that all the
people were watching him.
In a garden two girls, perhaps
fifteen years old, were wrestling. When they saw Mechenmal, they quickly sat
down on a bench, letting him come nearer. When he was close enough, they
laughed at him; one of them wiggled her legs. He hurried away. Behind him one
of them cried out: "See how quickly the man moves." And the other
cried out just as foolishly : "Yes, he's smoking." They watched him
go, then they went back to wrestling with each other.
Mechenmal gradually calmed down. He
thought: They can't prove it was me. I'll deny everything. Ha! Who can prove
anything about me ... Even if they notice anything! -- He threw the cigar away.
He felt safer. He whistled with the thought that Kohn could no longer bother
him. That he, Max Mechenmal, had overcome the difficulty with Kohn so
completely. He thought that he tackled life correctly. That everything went
well for him. He had great trust in himself. He thought: No sentimentality now.
To lead a decent life, one must be a bastard.
He went home happily.
The
Café Klösschen
Lisel Liblichlein had come from the
country to the city because she wanted to become an actress. At home she found
everything stuffy, narrow, stultifying. The gentlemen were stupid. The sky, the
kisses, the girl friends, the Sunday afternoons became unbearable. The most she
could do was cry. To her, becoming an actress would mean: to be clever, free,
and happy. What that meant, she did not know. She had no way to determine
whether she had talent.
She adored her cousin Schulz,
because he lived in the city and wrote poems. When the cousin wrote once that
he was tired of law and would live in accordance with his inclination to be a
writer, she informed her shocked parents that she was fed up with the
restricted life; she would pursue her ideals as an actress. They tried in every
way to dissuade her from this plan, to no avail. She became more determined,
and even made threats. They yielded reluctantly, went with her to the city,
rented a small room in a large pension, enrolled her in an inexpensive acting
school. Cousin Schulz was asked to look after her.
Mr. Schulz frequently was in the
company of Cousin Liblichlein. He took her to cabarets, read poetry, showed
here his Bohemian digs, introduced her to the literary cafe Kloesschen, went
with her hand-in-hand for hours through the streets at night, touched her,
kissed her. Miss Liblichlein was pleasantly dazed by all the new things; soon
it occurred to her that most of what she saw was not as beautiful as she had
once imagined. Right from the start she was irritated that the director of the
theater, the collegues, the literati of the Cafe Kloesschen -- all the people
with whom she often came in contact, found pleasure in touching her, caressing
her hands, pressing their knees against hers, looking directly at her without
shame. Even being touched by Schulz became burdensome to her.
To avoid hurting his feelings, as
well as to avoid seeming provincial, she seldom showed her discomfort. But once
she struck him vigorously on the face. They were in his room; he had just
explained the last lines of his poem, "Weariness." They were
The
evening stands before my window, grey man!
It would
be best if we went to sleep --
Then he tried to remove her blouse.
Schulz was utterly stunned by the blow. He said, almost weeping, that she must
have noticed that he loved her. Moreover, he was her cousin. She said that she
didn't like someone opening her blouse. Besides, he had torn off a button. He
said that he could no longer stand it. If one loved someone, one must yield to
him. He would try to lose himself with other women. She did not know what to
answer. Groaning, he thought: Oh, oh. She sat next to him dejectedly.
For the next few days he was nowhere
to be seen. When he returned, he was pale and grey. His bloodless red eyes lay
tearfully in grimy shadows. His voice had only a sing-song tone, with a
mannered melancholy. Schulz spoke mournfully, dreamily, about despair,
whoredom, and being torn apart inwardly. He said that he was fed up with the
joy of life. that he would soon catch up with his own death. He avoided showing
signs of tender feelings, but he often sighed painfully. He flirted
theatrically with a longing for dying. He brought his friend to corpse-strewn
tragedies, to gloomy film-dramas, to serious concerts in darkened halls.
Perhaps a week had gone by. A woman
had sung. The hands of the listeners applauded loudly and long. Gottschalk
Schulz passionately grasped Lisel Lilichlein's fingers, laid them gently on one
of his thighs, and said: "Isn't it strange how a woman's song grips the
soul!" Then he again began to speak imploringly and tearfully of love and
yielding. Lisel Liblichlein said that this was boring or disgusting to her. Out
of pity -- and because she wanted to go up -- she finally declared that she
would agree to the love if he would give up the business of surrender. Schulz
happily pressed her to himself. He stood there dreaming for a long time. He
sang: "O tears. O goodness. O God. O beauty. O love. O love. O
love..." He dashed through the streets. He had disappeared into the Cafe
Kloesschen. But Lisel Liblichlein sat in her small room, awkwardly smiling
under a reddish tallow lamp. She did not understand these city people, who seemed
to her strange, dangerous animals. She felt abandoned and more alone than
before. She thought with longing about her innocent homeland: about the breezy
sky, about the laughing young gentlemen, about tennis matches, and she felt
nostalgia for the Sunday afternoons -- she took off her garters, placed her
little bodice on a chair. She was inconsolable.
II
On a transparent summer evening the
Cafe Kloesschen was bathed in light. The city sky of dark blue silk, upon which
the white moon and many small stars lay, enveloped it. At the rear of the cafe,
alone, a long time before he suddenly died, smoking at a tiny table, on which
something stood, sat the hunch-backed poet Kuno Kohn. People crouched around
other tables. Among them moved people with yellow and red skulls: women;
writers; actors. Everywhere shadowy waiters darted.
Kuno Kohn was not thinking of
anything special. He hummed to himself: "A fog has so gently destroyed the
world." The poet Gottschalk Schulz, a lawyer, who had painfully flunked
all the tests he had taken, greeted him. A beautiful girl was with him. They
both sat down at Kohn's table. Schulz and Kohn collaborated with the
enthusiastic little Lutz Laus, to produce a monthly journal, "The
Dachshund," designed to refine the level of immorality. Schulz told Kohn
that the Dachshund-Laus would soon invent a godless religion on neo-legal
principles, for which purpose he intended to call an organizational meeting in
a nearby movie-house. Shaking his head, Kohn listened. The lovely girl ate
cake. Kohn said sadly: "Laus can touch people and get things done. But
there is no longer a Jesus to make us believe. We die every day more deeply
into empty, eternal death. We are hopelessly pulled apart. Our life will remain
meaningless theatrics". As she ate, the girl looked on, with a cheerful
look emanating from the uncomprehending reddish brown eyes on her clear face.
Schulz had sunken into gloomy thoughts. The girl said that her whole life also
was a spectacle, and therefore she didn't find it to be so meaningless. In the
acting school, in which she was preparing for a career on the stage as a
sentimental lover, hard work was done. Mr. Kohn ought to drop in sometime, to
convince himself about it. Kuno Kohn looked at the girl ardently for a while.
He thought: "Such a small, stupid girl." But he soon left.
Outside, the lyric poet Roland Rufus
suddenly seized his arm firmly and excitedly, saying: "Have you read the
review written by a certain Bruno Bibelbauer in the monthly medical journal, in
which it is claimed that the reason for my paranoia is that I imagine that I
have some paralysis. Everyone looks at me strangely; I am famous. My publisher
is giving me a large advance. But -- ah, I must not say it -- I am
incurable." He went immediately into a better wine-restaurant.
A horse hobbled by, pulling a
carriage, like an old man. The hunchback Kohn idly leaned against a Catholic
church, thinking about existence. He said to himself: "Yet how odd
existence really is. And yet one props oneself up, somewhere, somehow, without connection,
irrelevant; one could just as well continue for better or for worse, anywhere.
That makes me unhappy." Before him a small, silent whore's dog had
stopped, had listened humbly, with glowing eyes.
A fiery glass wedding coach hopped
by. Inside, in a corner, he saw the pale, expressionless face of a bridegroom.
An empty carriage arrived and Kohn climbed in. He said quietly: "A seeker
without a goal ... a man drift ... ... unknown to everyone ... One has a
frightening longing. O that one might know for what."
The streets glimmered whitely when
he opened the door of the house in which he lived. In his room he looked
silently, with a solemn sadness, at the pictures of men, all of whom were dead,
which were fastened to the wall. Then he began to remove the articles of
clothing from his hump. When he was wearing only undershorts, a shirt, and
socks, he said, murmuring and sighing, "Gradually one goes insane..."
In bed his mind slowly emptied. The
reddish brown eyes of the girl in the Cafe Kloesschen came into his mind as he
fell asleep.
Strangely. on the days that
followed, these eyes also shone often in his brain. That surprised him.
Frightened him. His relationship to women was odd. In general he had an
aversion to them; his urges drove him to boys. But in certain summer months,
when his soul was shattered and inconsolable, he often fell in love with a
young, childlike woman. Since he was rejected and mocked most of the time
because of his hump, the memory of these women and girls was terrible. Therefore
he was cautious at these times. He went to a prostitute when he felt danger.
Lisel Liblichlein had taken him by
surprise, without his having had any premonition of it. In vain he thought of
the pain of failure. In vain he imagined that Lisel Liblichlein might be one of
the many delicate creatures, confused in their wonderful ignorance and longing
for happiness, who can be found everywhere on earth, resembling one another ...
On a soft evening, full of greenish yellow street-lights, full of umbrellas and
street filth, stood a small, hunch-backed man anxiously waiting at the entrance
of an acting school.
III
Sometimes a poisonous, searing wind
arose. Like thick, glowing oil, the sun lay on the houses and on the streets
and on the people, Small, sexless little people with bent legs hopped
senselessly around the front garden, enclosed by an iron fence, of the Cafe
Kloesschen. Inside, Kuno Kohn and Gottschalk Schulz were fighting. Others
happened to be watching. Lisel Liblichlein sat apprehensively in a corner.
The reason for this had been: Mr
Kohn had accompanied Miss Liblichlein from the acting school to her home
several times. When Schulz learned about it, he became, without cause, jealous.
He began to say terrible things about Kohn. Lisel Liblichlein, who saw through
her cousin, defended the hunchback. This made Schulz even angrier. He declared
convincingly that he would shoot himself. He didn't do that, but threatened
that he would shoot her too. At that point she stopped seeing him. -- Lisel
Liblichlein needed a man with whom she could discuss her important, ordinary
experiences. After the quarrel with Schulz she chose Kohn out of some vague
instinct. Thus it happened that she made an appointment to meet him at the
Kloesschen at noon on the day of the fight, in order perhaps to consult with
him about choosing a dress, or about his interpretation of a role, or about
some little event. At the moment Kohn arrived, about to ask what the girl
wanted, Gottschalk burst in, stood before him with a red, swollen face, and
called him an unscrupulous seducer of young girls. Kohn tried to reach up and
slap Schulz' face. Then each hit the other, furious and silent. The sign for
the lavoratory-attendant, which had previously read, "My institute is
here, entrance there," lay shattered on the ground. Suddenly Schulz' hand
violently struck Kohn's hump. The hand had a bloody wound, and the hump was
injured. Pale as a corpse, Schulz cried out: "The hump is critically
wounded." Then he had himself taken by a waiter to a first aid station. He
ignored Lisel Liblichlein entirely.
Kohn did not pay much attention to
his injured hump. He sat down again at the table with Lisel Liblichlein, and
ordered tea with lemon. She saw how ever more clearly blood was oozing through
his threadbare jacket.She called his attention to the bloody jacket; he became
frightened. She asked if she should bind the wound -- He said bitterly, to
touch a hump would not be pleasant for her. She said, blushing sympathetically,
that a hump was human. She said that he could come to her place. The hump must
be cleaned and cooled. Then she would apply a dressing. He could spend the
afternoon at her place...
Happily and hesitantly Kohn agreed
to her suggestion. They sat into the night in Lisel Liblichlein's little room.
They talked about souls, humps, love. --
From that day on the writer Schulz
was missing. An acquaintance had last seen him in the evening, in front of the
display window of a shoe store. "Hot Heroes" -- a journal for
romantic decadence -- received a special-delivery letter, in which Schulz
reported that, for pyschological
reasons, he was on the point of
taking his own life. Some people regarded this as nothing really new. Most
people were excited. The newspapers carried exciting notices. A fund to find
Schulz' body was established. An owner of a factory donated a tasteful coffin.
Woods and fields were searched. All
the lakes were probed with long poles. No trace of Schulz was found. They
already wanted to give up the search, when they found him disfigured, in a
middle-level hotel in a distant suburb. On a windy pond he had contracted
influenza, which had kept him in bed for a week. He was found on the creaky
steps of the hotel, covered with many blankets and shawls, experimenting with
the idea of carrying out his intention of committing suicide. It was not
difficult to dissuade him, and he was brought in triumph back to the city. The
coffin was sold off. From the profits and the remainder of the fund to find
Schulz' body a party for Bohemians was organized ---
Gottschalk Schulz himself was
enthroned as Faust, world-weary, in a corner. The gifted Doctor Berthold
Bryller appeared as one of the wealthy literati. Lutz Laus played the Pope. The
high school teacher Spinoza Spass -- the clown of the Cafe Kloesschen -- had
wrapped a Siegfried-costume around his belly, and given himself a Goethe
haircut. The lyric poet Mueller soon lay like a green, drunken corpse. Kuno
Kohn, who had made a formal reconciliation with Schulz, came as himself. Lisel
Liblichlein also came with him, wearing a rustic outfit. The others scuttled
back and forth wildly among themselves, screeching like Chinese, chimpanzees,
Gods, nightwatchmen, sophisticates. The whole crowd from the Cafe Kloesschen
was present.
Lisel Liblichlein danced on this tumultuous,
screaming night only with the hunch-backed poet. Many people watched the
strange pair, but there was no laughing. Kohn's hump pressed hard and
heedlessly, like the edge of a table, against the delicate others. It seemed as
though he had the constant desire to press his hump against a dancer. He never
failed to say, in a falsetto voice, "pardon," with unashamed
courtesy, when a crazy woman cried out or someone blissfully snarled
"damn." Lisel Liblichlein held on to the poet with one hand holding the
hump like a handle, and with the other had she pressed Kohn's square head
gently to her breast. In this way they danced like possessed people for many
hours.
Kohn's hump became steadily more
painful for the other dancers. They tried to express outrage. The people in
charge of the party informed Kohn that he was requested to refrain from
dancing. With this kind of hump one should not dance. Kohn did not resist.
Lisel Liblichlein watched as his face became grey.
She led him to a hidden recess.
There she said to him: "From now on I shall tutoyer you." Kuno
Kohn did not answer, but he accepted her sympathetic soul like a gift in his
water-blue troubadour's eyes. Trembling, she said that she suddenly loved him
so much that it was incomprehensible ... she would never again let his arm go
... she had not know that one could be so wildly happy... Kuno Kohn invited her
to visit him the next evening. She accepted gladly.
Kuno Kohn and Lisel Liblichlein were
the first to leave the giddy celebration. They moved through the heaven-bright
moonlit streets, whispering. The poet in love cast fantastic shadows with giant
humps on the pavement.
When they parted, Lisel Liblichlein
lowered her head and kissed Kohn's mouth several times. Thus Kuno Kohn and
Lisel Liblichlein parted... He said that he was pleased that she would visit
him the next evening. She said, very quietly, "I ... oh ... also ..."
On the well cared-for streets, the
carefully arranged houses stood like books on shelves. The moon had scattered
bright blue dust on them. Few windows were lit, shining peacefully, like the
eyes of lonely people, with the same gold-colored look. Kuno Kohn went home
thoughtfully. His body was dangerously bent forward. His hands lay firmly at
the end of his back. His head was hanging low. The hump towered above, an
adventurous, sharp stone. At this time Kuno Kohn was no longer a man; he had
his own form.
He thought: "I wish to avoid
being happy. That would mean giving up the longing that transcends all
fulfillment, which is my most exquisite meaning. To degrade the holy hump, with
which a friendly destiny has endowed me, through which I have experienced
existence much more deeply, more unhappily, more wonderfully, than people
perceive, to a burdensome superficiality. I wish to develop out of Lisel
Liblichlein her higher being. I want to make her utterly unhappy ..."
While the poet Kohn was thinking
these thoughts, the poet Schulz at last was stabbing himself with a salad
knife. He had observed Kuno Kohn and Lisel Liblichlein in their confidential
conversation in the hidden recess. He had seen how they had gone off together.
He tried to drink and eat away his grief, to no avail. After he had eaten and
drunk for some time, he was insane. He sang: "Death is a serious matter
... Death has no time for jokes ... Death is an urgent need..." Then he
timidly and hesitantly stuck the first knife that he could get his hands on
into his left breast. Blood and the bloody remains of salad spurted around him.
This time the attempt to kill himself was crowned with success.
IV
Lisel Liblichlein appeared the next
evening earlier than the agreed upon hour. Kuno Kohn opened the door, holding
flowers in his hand. He was visibly happy; he said that he had scarcely hoped
that she would come. She placed her arms around his bony body, sucked him to
her body. and said: "You dear humped little dummy ... I love you so much
-- "
The ate a simple evening meal. She
stroked him when something tasted good to her. She said that she wanted to
remain with him until early morning. Then she could celebrate the beginning of
her eighteenth birthday with him...
A church bell announced the new
day.. The first loud breaths were like groaned prayers in Kohn's dusky room.
There Lisel Liblichlein's young soul-body had become a temple; she had endured
pain with touching matter of factness, to sacrifice herself to the hunch-backed
priest. She had said: ``Are you happy now" -- She lay dissolved in dream
and emotion. The thin skin of her eyelids enveloped her.
Suddenly fright ran through her
body. She had fear like claws in her face. Her eyes, torn open and screaming,
were on the hunchback.
Lisel Liblichlein said, without
expression, "This -- was -- happiness --" Kuno Kohn wept.
She said: "Kuno, Kuno, Kuno,
Kuno, Kuno, Kuno ... What shall I do with the rest of my life?" Kuno Kohn
sighed. He looked seriously and with kindness into her sorrowful eyes. He said:
"Poor Lisel! The feeling of complete helplessness that has come over you I
have often felt. The only consolation is: to be sad. When sadness degenerates
into doubt, then one should become grotesque. One should live on for the sake
of fun. One should try to rise above things, by realizing that existence
consists of nothing but brutal, shabby jokes." He wiped sweat from his
hump and from his forehead.
Lisel Liblichlein said: "I
don't know why you are going on like this. I don't understand what you have
said. It was unkind of you to take away my happiness." The words fell like
paper.
She said that she wanted to go. He
should get dressed. The naked hump was embarrassing to her...
Kuno Kohn and Lisel Liblichen said
nothing more until they parted forever at the door of the house in which the
boarding school was located. He looked into her face, held her hand, and said:
"Farewell -- " She said quietly: "Farewell."
Kohn receded into his hump.
Destroyed, he moved on. Tears smeared his face. He felt her sadly gazing at his
back. Then he ran around the corner of the next group of houses, stopped, dried
his eyes with a handkerchief, and hurried off, still weeping.
Like a sickness, a slimy fog crept
into the city, as it grew blind. Street lights were gloomy swamp flowers, which
flickered on blackish, glowing stalks. Objects and creatures had only chilly
shadows and blurred movements. Like a monster, a night bus reeled past Kohn.
The poet called out: "Now one is again entirely alone." Then he
encountered a fat, hunch-backed woman, with long spidery legs, wearing a
ghostly, diaphanous skirt. Her upper body resembled a ball lying on a high
little table. She looked at him temptingly and sympathetically, with an amorous
smile, which the fog contorted into an insane expression. Kohn disappeared
immediately in the greyness. She groaned and then trundeled on.
Sluggishly day limped closer,
smashing the remains of the night with an iron crutch. The half-extinguished
Cafe Kloesschen, a gleaming fragment, lay still in the soundless morning. In
the background sat the last customer. Kuno Kohn had let his head sink back on
his trembling hump. The scrawny fingers of his hand covered his forehead and
face. His whole body cried out noiselessly.
The
Virgin
Maria Mondmilch was the only child
of the art-historian Doctor Maximilian Mondmilch and his lovely wife Marga
Mondmilch. Mrs. Mondmilch is said to have been at one time a scullery-maid in
the cafe in which Mr. Mondmilch -- who at the time was a student -- drank tea,
read newspapers, and smoked. After the birth of the child she had secretly left
her spouse, supposedly to spend a few weeks with a champagne-waiter. Thereafter
she fooled around alternately with very different men from very different
social classes. She returned when she learned that the incurable Doctor had
been brought to a mental institution for diseases of the brain. She carefully
looked after the mortally ill man for the short time before he died. Then she
married a wonderful coachman, who idolized her.
Doctor Mondmilch's illnes was first
discovered when he wanted to commit a criminal offense against his eight-year
old daughter. Fortunately the atrocity was able to be prevented at the last
moment. The child, frightened in heart and mind, was placed in the care of the
madman's brother, the excellent Moriz von Mondmilch, a first-class administrative
officer. The last word of the dying art-historian was, "Maria."
A curious affection developed
between the uncle and the niece. Nothing happened that could have been
construed as illegal. The passion between the child and the old man aroused the
jealousy of old Mrs. Minna von Mondmilch. After the marital discord had become
too burdensome, the angered civil servant felt compelled to agree one year
later to a separation from his ward. He also had to consider his daughter, who
had become a young woman. The parting was hard. His Excellency Moriz von
Mondmilch had a crying fit.
Maria Mondmilch arrived in a large
city. The strangers with whom she boarded were paid a large amount of money.
But otherwise they did not concern themselves with Maria Mondmilch. She exchanged
secret letters with the noble uncle, filled with overflowing longing for life
and hopes for adventure. The consciousness of constantly having something to
hide gave her a solemn, inexplicable superiority. Maria Mondmilch preserved her
uncle's letters as though they were sacred relics. Some of the letters were
lost and became evidence in the famous divorce trial that excited the whole
country.
Maria Mondmilch was a student in the
big city at a girls' high school She was not among the best students. Sometimes
she used her time diligently. She was accused of having instigated all kinds of
dirty tricks that took place. When it became know that the head of the
institution had met her in the evening on a disreputable street, it was
expected that she would be dismissed from school. In the proceedings against a
teacher of literature at the high school who, in spite of being accused of
having committed several sexual crimes, had to be acquitted, she was the most
important witness.
The young girl preferred to spend
the night in the notorious section of the city. Maria Mondmilch allowed every
possible kind of riff-raff, to speak to her, but she ran away from most of the
men. She was not yet fifteen years old when she permitted a peddlar, whose
acquaintance
she had made one filthy evening in a
foul alley on a bridge, under neglected, ancient gas lamps, to photograph her
naked in indecent poses. When she was sixteen years old, she spent Christmas
vacation with a handsome electrician, who was a complete stranger to her, named
Hans Hampelmann, in a run-down hotel, posing as husband and wife. Given her
erotic needs, it was not difficult to explain her decision to study medicine
after graduating.
The hungry actor Schwertschwanz --
an intelligent and worn-out looking person, who stank of cheap chocolate --
moved with aimless longing through the nocturnal, glittering, noisy streets of
the city in which Maria Mondlich studied medicine. He met her while she was
returning sadly from a lecture on human sexual diseases and male disorders. For
fun -- pretty much -- he spoke to her. Together they both went into a cheap
saloon.
Before speaking to the student, the
actor Schwertschwanz had been thinking about what could most readily explain
the doubt he had had for many years: the ultimate unimportance of all events;
or only the happenstance that important people often must croak because of a
lack of appropriate nourishment and medicine ... the inadequacy of women ...
The incurable nature of Tabes disease. the symptoms of which he believed he
detected in himself ... When Maria Mondmilch named her profession, he lit up.
Syphilis and its consequences were mentioned. Miss Mondmilch told of
frightening cases. Mr. Schwertschwanz listened, shocked and carried away. He
was fascinated when she, coquetishly stressing that she unfortunately could
maintain only professional relationships with men, as though unintentionally
revealed a well shaped but austere leg, that was encased in an exciting,
ordinary, half silk stocking.
The student did not hide her liking
for the actor. His shabby appearance filled her with confidence. The area
around his internally) almost rotted, true-hearted blue eyes, worn out, as she
imagined, by make-up and hopelessness, by excessive whorings or masturbation,
gripped her soul. His being, a mixture of smugness and unashamed
aggressiveness, very much excited her. Amidst the screaming, the waiters, the
beer-benches, and the vapors, under the addictive yellow gaslights, she had to
call out with rapture, "I've never met a man like you before, Mr.
Schwertschwanz," He was so pleased, he touched her. While a troop of
soldiers marching by outside whistled the well-known folk song, "Little
Maria, you sweet little creature etc..."
Without a spoken agreement, the
lovers, arm-in-arm, moved in the direction of the student's room when they left
the boozy saloon. Upstairs, Maria Mondmilch laid down, with her legs crossed,
on a sleep-sofa near the bookcase. The actor sank into a soft chair, next to
which a small table with an ornate bottle of cognac stood. Talking was
difficult. Each wanted to sob out to the other how much he or she had suffered
from childhood on. They wanted to gobble each other up, so greedy were they as
the minutes went by. Something stood between them. The actor drank the cognac.
The student played nervously with her hands and feet.
The actor could no longer bear his
agony. He cried out gently -- it was as though something had been shattered to
pieces: "I shall be frank. I am syphilitic" -- Some tears rolled down
his cheeks. He was startled by how insincere he was. The student held her hands
in front of her face. As theatrically as he. But unconsciously.
He had miscalculated. Her erotic
excitement was out of control. She wriggled on her sleep-sofa. She held out her
hand to him. She whispered: "Poor man, come." He did not take her
hand. With lowered eyes, in a face filled with unhappy renunciation, whose
effect had been tried out
on many hysterical women, he said:
"You of all people should know that contact with me might give you an
infection, although in the last few years my Wasserman test was always
negative." Then she said heroically: "Frankness deserves frankness. I
am a virgin."
Instinctively she had taken
vengeance. He no longer had control of his overwrought senses. Like a cat he
pounced onto the girl in the middle of the sleep-sofa. Now she fought him off.
Ready, with anxious eyes, to give herself to him.
As they were wrestling the student
sang her theme-song: "I am Maria Mondmilch, the girl, the virgin. Open your
door for me. You, I tried the surface of many men's flesh, old men and young. I
tempted them all. In all of them I sought my man. No one penetrated me deeper
than my skin ... I prowled around during the days. Ran during the nights. I
slept in the same bed with musicians and aristocrats. I was with salesmen and
with pimps and with students. I ran around with bicycle artists and with
lawyers. I let no man pass without looking him in the eye. Whether it rained.
Or was winter. Or the sun shone. No one could call me his woman. No one was my
man. One shot himself. One jumped into a swamp. I am guiltless . .. One went
mad. One kicked me. Most went away as though nothing bad had happened... You,
blue-eyed sorrowful face beneath me, oh, would that you were my man, that I
might bloom in you. Are you my man, in whom I blissfully sink -- "
And the actor sang to the student as
they wrestled: "I am the actor Schwertschwanz, the man, the lecher. In all
the bodies in which I have drunk, I sought you. I have become a drinker. Out of
longing. I have poisoned my blood out of love. How meaningless it would be if I
-- half dead -- found you now. I have looked for you too long to find you
yet."
Then Maria Mondmilch called out as
she fell on him: "Little Schwertschwanz, do you love me --" And
already intoxicated: "He does not love me."
The man fall back in utter
indolence. The student spat on his collar. Rammed the hat on the head of the
spineless man. Pressed a gold coin into his hand. Threw him out.
While the actor Schwertschwanz,
trembling with desire, went about searching for the right whore, Maria Mondlich
sat over a thick anatomy textbook. She looked at the drawing of a completely
naked man, And howled like a dog at the sea.
The
suicide of the pupil Mueller
A Mr. Ludwig Lenzlich was a teacher
and tutor in a mental hospital for psychopathic children. He was always called
"Mr. A.B.D." He was beardless, like an actor, and he spoke like one.
Generally he wore a severe, sharp mask on his face.
This Mr. Lenzlicht, two days after
the burial of the pupil Martin Mueller (who had hanged himself with the
stockings of the teacher Nora Neumann on the window bolt of a skylight), found
in a dark corner of his desk a notebook. He took it out and looked at it. On
the label was written: This work Martin Mueller dedcates to the new primitives.
On the first page was written: Dear Lenzlicht, you are the only one of the
imbeciles in the institution whom I believe capable of half-way understanding the
observations which I have written down here. But reading this will demonstrate
to you that you also, poor blind man, came into only glancing contact with my
personality, as if it were some empty face, without feeling its powerful
sensibility. Perhaps you will get an inkling (then you could call yourself
lucky). I shall kill myself on the top-hung window, alone in the realization.
My work will endure. Martin Mueller.
Mr. Lenzlicht was surprised when he
read the sentences. Then he thought about the dimensions of childrens'
imaginations. He was neither happy nor sad, but he seemed dark. Thinking was
for him no passion, therefore he soon continued reading.
On the next page some essays were
written about the value of art, about its future, about the interrelationship
of individual arts, about the architecture of literary style, about the new
primitives who, according to Mueller, would bring about a victorious revolution
in the life of art. The essays almost filled the notebook. Mr. Lenzlicht read
it without taking an active interest, and he often skipped pages.
The last essay in the notebook
seemed to interest him more. His eyes widened, and they fastened themselves to
the letters. He held the paper like someone who was near-sighted, and with both
hands. Sometimes he said something vague. Or he laughed without knowing it. Or
he laughed, (the way someone would say "damn"). Or he let his tongue
hang out of his mouth. In the notebook was written:
I sit at the desk and dream, which
would seem suspicious to the good Lenzlicht: The young should not dream.
Lenzlicht has already noticed that the skin around my eyes has become ashen. He
often asks, with special emphasis, whether I slept badly saying that I look so
funny. Once I became angry, and said: "You too, Mr. Candidate."
Smiling embarassedly, he beat me until I bled.
I had to interrupt my writing,
because Miss Neumann had come in. Today she has colored legs with
patent-leather shoes -- I find that exciting. I had promised myself to watch
her no longer ... lately she shown herself to be such a prude... in the
afternoon she went into the city. She came back late. I met her on the
staircase. But she broke away and said, excitedly, "Go to bed." And
she went into her room. In the following days I did not see her. The servant
Hermann said she must be taking care of her room. I asked why. He said she had
become engaged. He smirked.
For me the erotic discussions had
gradually become detestable. I always try to free myself. I am seldom
successful. I know that an understanding woman might free me. This one
wouldn't: Miss Neumann is a silly young thing, eighteen years old. The cook is
an immature bitch.
The housemaid Minna is arrogant; she
is unapprochable, unjustifiably. Perhaps the head of the institution, Dr.
Mondmilch, is a possibility, but when I try to make my valleys and peaks
comprehensible to her, looking with longing into her eyes, give myself to her
--- she is distant, takes notes, has secret talks with Lenzlicht, prescribes
tranquilizers. She is very brutal, I sometimes believe that she loves me
secretly. She seems to be unhappy; I like her. --
Yesterday I had to interrupt my
writing, because the fat idiot Backberg called me to the table. I sit next to
the Russian Recha. She likes to pinch my leg; she says I'm too fat. She kisses
tall Lehkind, because he looks like a skeleton. Anyway, I can't stand the
vermin that have been assembled here. There's trouble every day. In particular,
the very small seven-year old Max Mechenmal -- an unusually insignificant
person -- causes me unusual trouble. He does not like me, because he is
conscious of my superiority. He tries in every way to make me look ridiculous.
He is deceitful and cowardly. No one finds him nice. He likes nothing better
than to provoke us against each other, to spread angry gossip, and to do as
much damage as possible. He knows how to stay in the background, to disappear
at the right moment. --
Once I was writing, suspecting
nothing bad, in our spacious bath and w.c. (here I was safe from surprises) a
longer work on the "Hoax of Genius". I explained that genius is a
title, not a quality. That fact is often overlooked, and engenders great
confusion. The name is accidental, generally suspicious. Whoever is called a
genius is therefore not a brilliant person. Brilliant people usually do not
attain the title, which is awarded by the crowd. The most brilliant people of
all time flowered in madhouses and prisons. Someone who is understood by
thousands of
every-day people, is loved ... is worthless
to me. --
At that point I was startled by the
slow, soulful screams of blind little Kohn, with whom I had established a
friendship, in spite of my anti-semitic principles. I leaped up, hurried out. I
saw how Max Mechenmal was running back and forth, pinching Kohn in the legs or
doing other nasty things, while calling out: "Catch me." The little
Kohn was pale. In his helplessness. He pressed his back against a wall. His
thin, suffering hands groped in the air... I have never seen such concentrated
pain as lay in the dead eyes of little Kohn. Without giving myself time to put
my clothes in order, I hurried to Mechenmal, to beat him for his brutal
behavior. My trousers were damaged by a nail which was sticking out of the
wall. Mechenmal used the delay to slip by me, run into the w.c., which he
locked behind him. I beat on the door. He said: "Occupied!" I was
very angry. It occured to me that in my haste I had forgotten to take with me
the paper on which the work on the hoax of genius was written. I called to him
to pass it out. He did not answer. Later I heard how loudly he giggled. And I
knew: I would never see the manuscript which I had intended to send to the new
newspaper, "The Other A." Sadly I went away --
Ah, little Kohn unfortunately is now
dead. He has died of his ghosts, as he had often predicted to me. The blind
little Kohn had seen his ghosts. Sometimes in stark daylight. At such times he
was found trembling, pale, in a corner. He had drawn up his legs so far that
his thigh was pressed against his sunken chest. His head lay between his knees.
The tiny, frightened fingers clutched the tops of his shoes. If someone touched him, he shrieked. The
shriek was so piercingly frightening that one instinctively let him go, as
though one had been shoved. Each time it happened one was as as helpless as the
first time. Doctor Mondmilch was called. She stroked him a bit. His rigidity
dissolved in sobs. He received drops, was put to bed, slept badly. Mechenmal
called out, so that it echoed in the street, "Kohn is mad again."
Towards the end, the attacks had
become more frequent, especially at night. His fainting attacks lasted longer,
and the exhaustion that followed was disheartening. One evening, when Doctor
Mondmilch had accepted an invitation of the veterinarian and neurologist Dr.
Bruno
Bibelbauer, and had gone away for an
extended time, the catastrophe happened. Little Kohn lay in bed, nearly dead.
Mechenmal said: "Now, at least, he will no longer disturb anyone who he
wants to sleep." The fat idiot Backberg had a good time at the burial. The
cook howled; so did the housemaid Minna. Nora Neumann shut herself up in a
room; I think she wrote poetry. The Russian Recha disappeared; Lenzlich later
found her in the dead man's room. She sat on the bed, held Kohn's hand
ecstatically to her heart, and moved the lid of his right eye back and forth
with her right hand. I heard how she cried and said: that was so interesting.
Lenzlicht complained wistfully.
Mechenmal still says, when he speaks
about little Kohn, "he was certainly crazy." I disagree. Every person
who is not stupid has experiences now and then that cannot be brought into
harmony with traditional visions available to everyone. Sometimes one is more
sensitive than at other times and than other people. When one is alone,
familiar things are more peaceful ... perhaps, in the evening, when the lamp is
half-lit ... in the twilight, in lonely rooms ... on nights which bring no
sleep. At those times sounds arise from the stillness which I have never heard,
which I cannot explain. I am startled, alarmed, want, in this burning
enlightenment to be with many happy people -- do not want to hear ... hear more
finely. Stillness is shattered. Everything yawns and has sound. Objects begin
to move. Evil shadows generate fear. All forms lose their familiarity. I wait
for ... a horrible, incorporeal wonder.
I am a firm enemy of ghosts and
specters and such things. I find these appearances are not sensible or funny; I
want to have nothing to do with them. And yet I could prevent the fact that,
shortly before noon, the form of an ancient woman, with austere facial
features, appeared to me. I was unpleasantly moved by it. Even more so, when it
later occurred to me that it had possibly been my mother.
It is not less unreasonable to deny
ghosts than it is unreasonable to acknowledge wonders. If ghosts were an
everyday occurrence, philosophers would construct natural laws, by means of
which one could derive them. And without fuss overlook them.
I shall avoid further musing on
these confusing things, by taking my life. People will be shocked. Deny me the
right to have control over myself. They will offer the explanation that I was
at the breaking point. Supplying medical reasons. To calm themselves down; for
if everyone thought so, then there would soon be a universal protest against
living. Life would be boycotted. That must not happen. If you ask: why not? --
you will be condemned as a sophist. People don't like to die; the term is
called life-energy. They have recourse to Gods and a more cheerful outlook on
life. If misery becomes too severe, you can always go to a better insane
asylum.
I decided to free myself from myself
a long time ago. The most important motive for the action was: I really don't
like myself. I happen to be unable to bear the idea of living with myself for
an entire life. I have often complained that I cannot get rid of myself. I feel
myself as a terrible burden. I would like to be in a courageous, honorable,
pure young man. My person is untrue, unaesthetic, clumsy. I know that death
will destroy me entirely; the thought for me is the cause for keen despair; I
can't bear this thought for long. I have lost the ability to breathe. I feel as
though a monster is pressing me from within. My brain's activity seems to have
stopped. My hands are clenched in animal fear. I weep dry tears. The
institution of death is probably not fitting for many men; one should be able
to find means and ways to circumvent death. But dying is a trifle. The man who
is preparing for death must not think of death.
Mieze
Maier
I'm still attending high school, but
am more interested in theater and literature. I read Wedekind, Rilke, and
others. Goethe also. I don't like Schiller and George.
My friend's name is Mieze Maier. She
lives, with her companions, in an elegant four-room apartment, since her
father, Markus Maier, left her a lot of money. Her mother died ten years ago as
a result of an operation on her stomach. Her mother must have been beautiful.
Mieze Maier just became sixteen. She
had a big birthday celebration. Many beautiful and wicked girls and a number of
young men were invited. Everyone was very silly. People whispered in each
other's ears that Mieze was already sixteen. Then they laughed ...
Mieze Maier is beautiful. Also
smart. Also talented. Very flirtatious. Graceful and slyly charming. Sometimes
unhappy. She knows how to make many men sick, so that sorrow fills their eyes
when they are awake, and they have smiles on their lips when they sleep. And
their hands are held tightly, close to their bodies...
She always had her favorites. They
are like dolls with whom she plays, until, one day, she becomes tired of them
and casts them aside carelessly. I know seven. No one has remained in her favor
as long as six weeks. I am the eighth.
I know that my days are also
numbered. I too will be cast aside by this sixteen-year old thing -- still half
child. When I think about it, I am already ashamed and tormented within. And
yet ...
We have not said to each other that
we are in love, but we are very gentle with each other. It happens like this:
We met once. It was by chance. The
day was grey with weariness. Twilight lay over all things. Yellow and red light
came from a few houses.
We walked together. Her eyes had a
brilliance. Sometimes she half covered them with her lids. And she caught the
looks of men in her eyes. That must be a fine lust.
We did not speak; but once she said
that I had red lips. And once I said that she was superficial, for I wanted to
make her angry.
The next day we met again. That was
not by chance. We walked in the meadows. She put her hand on my shoulder and
was good to me. I thought of the kick that I would once day receive from her.
... Yesterday I hurt her, because I
called her superficial. There was something like crying in her voice when she
said:
"I'm really not as superficial
as you believe, Olaf. Twice I have been in love unhappily and once it bloomed
happily."
It seemed to me that her hand on my
shoulder had become heavier...
We walked slowly. We saw no people.
Wind came across the meadows. In the sky there were clouds everywhere, threatening
rain.
She looked at me. Her look was naked
and spoke of passion.
That was neat, how I suddenly seized
her and threw her into the grass with me and half-intoxicated whispered to her:
"You, my" - and how she lay there weary and sobbed: "Olaf"
---
Afterwards I performed my school
work badly. I probably won't be promoted.
Kuno
Kohn
For six months I have been living in
the house. None of the inhabitants has noticed anything. I am careful.
The white suit brings me luck. I
earn enough. And I have begun to save; for I feel that one's powers decline. I
am tired frequently; sometimes I have pain. I shall also become fat and old. I
don't like to put make-up on ---
I am no longer being supervised.
Kuno Kohn has made me free. I am thankful to him.
Kuno Kohn is repugnant; he has a
hunchback. His hair is the color of brass, his face is beardless, and worn with
furrows. His eyes seem old, encircled with shadows. A scar, like a stream of
rain, runs from his nose. One of his legs is swollen. Kuno Kohn said once that he
has an abscess in the bone.
The first meeting had been strange:
It was raining. The streets were wet
and dirty. I stood under a street lamp and looked at my wet clothes. When the
wind blew, I was chilled. My feet ached in my shoes.
Few people were on the street. Most
of them on the other side. Protected by the trees. With their coat collars up.
With the hat crooked over the forehead. No one was watching me; I was standing
there, sad. The gravel crunched beneath me. Hard and sudden, so that I cried
out. A
policeman came by, hands behind his
back. He moved slowly. He looked at me suspiciously, proud of his authority.
With a stark look, he felt that he was master. He moved further on. I laughed
scornfully; he did not look back. The policeman despised me.
I yawned: it had become late. --
Along came a man who was small and deformed. He stopped when he saw me. He had
unhappy eyes; on his lips was an embarrassed smile. He hid part of his face
behind scrawny fingers. And he rubbed his right eye-lid, like someone ashamed
of himself. And he coughed slightly ... I went up close to him, so that he felt
me. He said: "Well --: I said: "Come, little one." He said:
"I'm actually homosexual."
And he took my hand. And kissed with
cold lips.
Mabel
Meier
It was late. I heard the sounds of
trucks passing frequently. In the distance I saw people. On a corner two people
were standing who ... felt ashamed as I drew near.
Girls came, who were late. A few,
who wanted to earn money. I saw the tall whore, who worked this area every
night. I recognized her by her slip.
A detective was watching me. In
front of me a woman was walking, who stood still often and wailing.
I did not think about it. I looked
up at the stars and found nothing to wish for. I looked at myself with indifference,
like a foreign object. I shook my head, that the old man was walking alone so
late ... and murmured to the stars .. and it's so strange.
I met a woman who said: "Ah
--" I said: "may I accompany you?" The woman said:
"Please." It was quite dark.
We went along together; the woman
said that her name was Meier; but her first name was Mieze. She lived with
relatives; they employed a doorman. In addition, she sang in a chorus.
The woman was neither beautiful nor
young, but she seemed approachable. I had no reason to be shy.
In front of the house in which the
woman lived we stopped.
I suggested that we look for a
hotel. The woman was not averse; she said: "No -" I said:
"Why?" The woman said: "Papa" I said: "The you don't
want -- " A smile came over the woman's face. She looked at a street lamp
---
Siegmund
Simon
Nine doctors claim that Samuel Simon
is suffering from delusions. I am of the same opinion.
For 29 years I have been in the
mental institute. They are friendly to me. I can do what I want. When it's
warm, I go into the garden and listen to the hours die. When it is cold, I sit
at the window and let my mind drift towards the sky. Often I watch the people,
when they call or work or are sad ... I am glad that I am far away. I do not
miss life. I am glad if no one does anything to me or wants anything from me. I
don't envy people.
Nine times a year my pale wife
brings me flowers. My son Siegmund never comes. The last time I saw him was
when I was buried. On my 49th birthday --
I lay in a plain wooden coffin. I
was placed on a wagon-like catafalque. Nine pall-bearers dressed in black
walked beside me. Behind me was the pastor, Leopold Lehmann, and at his side my
wife Frieda and my nineteen-year-old son Siegmund. Behind them were a few
relatives, who were contented, and were speaking about the plague of
caterpillars.
The sun cast warm light. Wind blew
from time to time. It crawled over the gravel, tickling the women's breasts and
calves. We stopped before the open grave. The coffin was lowered, and a few formalities
and
prayers were taken care of. Then the
pastor, Leopold Lehmann, began, at the behest and at the expense of my wife, to
deliver a memorial speech. He said:
"Dear sisters and brothers!
Once again a kindly fate has robbed us of the life of a dear person. In grief
we stand at the grave of the departed and remember him sadly."
My son Siegmund bit his lips. The
pastor said:
"The earth, which has singled
out the body so that it might lead its own life for a short while, has taken it
back into the bosom of the mother. A noble man has gone home - "
A fit of laughter overcame my son
Siegmund. His face became red and serious ... He laughed until he was gasping.
My wife shrieked.
A pall-bearer dropped a bottle of
whiskey, which broke on the coffin. The pall-bearer regretfully cast his eyes
down.
The relatives were outraged. They
were ashamed of my son Siegmund. Some women cried into genuine lace
handkerchiefs.
I was completely still.
The pastor said:
"If one does not how to behave,
he should not come to a burial -- Amen."
He threw some sand over the broken
bottle of whisky. And left. Proud. Offended. The pastor. Leopold Lehmann.
My son Siegmund cleaned his
fingernails.
The
Friend
I love the dead days. They have no
glow; they are colorless and filled with yearning. The houses stand like
scenery before the grey clouds; the people move as though in a film: in the
evening they move no differently from the way they moved in the morning. All
things are more ponderous. And my room seems as though someone has died in it.
Whenever these days occur, a
mindless desire to work grows irresistibly in me. I carry out my daily tasks as
though as I were performing a mass. And I lose myself while doing so. Almost
the way dreamers have lost themselves. But sometimes I notice that I have
become motionless and inwardly rigid.
Then I become very alert, and I can
no longer do tasks. I go to the window, where I have wonderful thoughts. But
usually they occured only at night.
I feel out of place in all matters.
They press upon me as though they don't know me: the streets and the people and
the doors to the houses and the thousand movements. Wherever I look I become
confused.
My little death torments me; there
were many, greater deaths. And that I am alone. And that everywhere something
inconceivable is threatening. And that I do not find my way.. And all the
remaining sadnesses, for which there is no doctor, and which should not be
revealed. Each must submit to them alone, and in his own way. Talking about
them is ridiculous, but many die of them. I am afraid that I am so at odds with
myself and so powerless. Until memories come. Unbidden. But kind. From
somewhere. They numb me.
I smile when I find a child crying
or the mother's death, which was hideous and is unspeakable, or the other
bloody delights, dear things. I smile when the eyes of my friend suddenly come
to life in the silky shadows, that they shine as though out of a haze, and they
reveal their most inner secrets. No one has said it to me, and you will call me
a fool ... but I know that his death has always been in the eyes, the way for
someone else it is in the lungs or in the spinal cord...
His eyes were miserable and lost and
painfully hopeless, so that people laughed when he looked at them. He was
ashamed of his eyes, as if they betrayed sinful adventures, and he hid them
under yellowed lids. But he felt how he was stared at when he entered someplace
where he was not expected. Or he sat down where his presence needed no explanation.
He watched in an exaggerated manner, like a petitioner. Coughed and held his
hand in front of his mouth, drew his cheeks in and pushed one of them outward
with his tongue. Was embarrassed. Unhappy. Would have preferred to have been
alone ... in the dark.
Children bent their heads when his
gaze caught their eyes. And turned red. And grinned shyly and silently. Women
giggled, and looked innocuous, and slapped each other on the thigh or on the
bare shoulders and kissed their ravaged men. In the night they lay awake and
their thoughts were white hot. But the young girls avoided him.
Konrad
Krause
Not once during the night do I have
rest here. Often a hand or a word tears me from sleep. Because everything is
dark, I often do not know in the morning who was with me.
I must get up early, to clean the
clothes and polish the boots. My legs are heavy, and my eyes are still very
weary. But the young masters are hard when I neglect something, and cruel. But
at night they are friendly and caress me as though I were a grand lady.
Only old Mr. Konrad Krause is good
during the day as well. When he wants something, he speaks without humiliating
me; and something in the sound of his voice makes me happy. He does not permit
anything nasty to be said about me in his presence. I like him very much.
Recently I had a laugh over him. I
was awoken by noise coming from the corridor outside my room. It was a
conversation. I detected two voices: I missed much of what one said, for it
whispered; what I caught was young and rough. One I caught without trying;
clear as if it were a body. I felt that it was too fat and had wrinkles.
From the rough voice I heard:
"Do you also want to go to her, father?"
From the fat voice I heard, "Go
first, my son -- "
When Mr. Heinz came into the room,
he made a frightened sound, because I was laughing so much. And then he had to
sneeze ...
But I will soon forget this. I can
no longer even remember when the old Mr. Konrad Krause said he liked me. That
was still nicer.
I only remember that the writing-table
at which he sat was already dark when I brought the tea. He asked who was in
the house; I said: "No one" -- and wanted to pour the tea.. But he
pointed to his thigh and said: "sit down" -- I said: "If I
may" -- and I sat down. He said: "Put the teapot on the
writing-table." I did that. And then we looked at each other ardently, but
I was very bashful. Suddenly he took my hand and pressed it to his stomach. He
said: "Beloved."
We trembled violently.
The
Family
The family all come together once
every month. The women with the children meet in the afternoon.
Coffee is drunk. The children are
sent away. The should play. They must not hear everything.
But the women whisper. Their faces
show concern. They are speaking of someone who is very sick.
At twilight they tell stories about
ghosts and miraculous cures. They become frightened. They call the children.
They press the children to their breasts.
Then fruit is eaten.
The men come. Conversations about
hair styles, about business. And so on. The conversation moves haltingly.
Suddenly stops, like a defective clock. Fear that it will stop entirely. A
young girl blushes --
But at one point everything is
still. It feels suffocating. It feels unsafe, like in a swing, helpless, like
in a slide ... it feels ridiculous. One hears something like the wind sweeping
across the roofs. Rain beats against the grey windows.
Still silence.
There --
Is it really so bad ... with him --
how should it turn out ... People avoid each other's eyes.
Leopold
Lehmann
I am an employee of a bank. Because
I have no patron, and I am not especially hard-working, I am not getting ahead.
For more than 30 years I have been shifting the same kind of papers around in the
same department. For this reason I am considered conscientious.
For the last six months I have had a
new assistant. His name is Leopold Lehmann. He knows everything better than I.
He is the nephew of the deputy director. He calls himself a trainee. He likes
to hear himself talk. Most of all he likes to talk about himself. As a result,
I know the story of his life.
Leopold Lehmann, as he emphasizes,
was drawn in a clumsy manner from the womb with a forceps. His head is
misshapen, like a noodle. His nose also. He has gone through the usual
illnesses. He enjoys a complicated form of syphillis. It has eaten holes the
size of fists in Lehmann's body.
Leopold Lehmann wishes to give up
his duties in the bank, to study theology. I believe that he has already given
notice.
Lehmann associates exclusively with
theologians and with me. And with the deputy director.
He has sclerosis of the spinal cord.
Conversation
about Legs
When I was sitting in the coupé, the
gentleman opposite me said:
"Nobody can step on your
toes."
I said: "How so?"
The gentleman said: "You have
no legs."
I said: "Is it
noticeable?"
The gentleman said: "Of
course."
I took my legs out of my backpack. I
had wrapped them in tissue paper. And taken them with me as a memento.
The gentleman said: "What is
that?"
I said: "my legs."
The gentleman said: "You have a
leg up and yet get nowhere."
I said: "Unfortunately."
After a pause the gentleman said:
"What do you think you’re really going to do without legs?"
I said: "I haven’t racked my
brain much about that yet."
The gentleman said: "Without
legs even committing suicide is difficult."
I said: "Yet that’s a bad
joke."
The gentleman said: "Not at
all. If you want to hang yourself, first you’ve got to get up on the window
sill. And who will open the gas jet for you if you want to poison yourself? You
could only buy a revolver secretly through a servant. But suppose the shot
misses? To drown yourself you’ve got to take an automobile and have yourself
carried down to the river on a stretcher by two attendants who have to haul you
to the far bank."
I said: "That’s for me to worry
about."
The gentleman said: "You’re
wrong, I’ve been thinking since you’ve been siting here how one might get rid
of you. Do you think that a man without legs makes a sympathetic picture? Has
the right to live? On the contrary, you create a terrible disturbance for the
aesthetic feelings of your fellow human beings."
I said: "I am a full professor
of ethics and aesthetics at the university. May I introduce myself?"
The gentleman said: "How are
you going to do that? Clearly you cannot imagine how impossible you are, in
your condition."
I looked sadly at my stumps.
II
Soon the lady opposite me said:
"To have no legs must be a very
odd feeling."
I said: "Yes."
The lady said: "I would not
like to touch a man who had no legs."
I said: "I am very clean."
The lady said: "I must overcome
a great erotic disgust to speak with you, not to mention looking at you."
I said: "Really …"
The lady said: "I don’t believe
that you are a criminal. You might be a wise and, in your original condition,
nice person. But I could not, with the best will in the world, have relations
with you, because you have no legs."
I said: "One gets used to
everything."
The lady said: "That a man has
no legs causes a naturally sensitive woman to feel an inexplicable, profound
terror. As though you had committed a disgusting sin."
I said: "But I am innocent. I
lost one leg in the excitement of assuming my professorial chair for the first
time, the other I lost when, sunk in thought, I found that important aesthetic
law which led to basic changes in our discipline."
The lady said: "What is the
name of that law?"
I said: "The law says:
everything depends on the structure of the soul and the mind. If soul and mind
are noble, a body must be considered beautiful, no matter how humped and
misshapen it may be."
The lady ostentatiously lifted her
dress and revealed, right up to the top of her thigh, sheathed sumptuously in
silk, wonderful legs, that towered, like branches, from her ripe body.
At the same time the lady finally
said: "You may be right, although one might as easily argue the opposite.
In any case, a person with legs is totally different from one without
them."
Then, striding proudly away, she
left me sitting there.
Savior
of the theater
Theaters should stop competing with
the cinema. By doing so, they are thereby achieving – rejoice, friends of the
theater – the opposite of what they want: they are perishing.
The best way for these theaters to
maintain themselves is to make concessions to the cinema; they make neither
concessions in the selection of plays, nor in scope. This can be explained.
What movies – giving in to the instincts of the crowd – offer can never be
produced in the same dimensions and amount by theater, bound as it is by its
limits. Shaking its head, the public notices the helpless effort. And runs to
the movies. For what should bind the public most to the theater: art, is for
the most part shamefully neglected. (As when makers of felt hats had the idea,
when straw hats were worn by everyone, to bring to the market felt hats shaped
and colored like straw hats.)
Before movies came along, the many
second-class theaters were by far a much greater danger to the theater.
Characteristically organizations of this kind are threatened most by movies.
Some will remain for a while, because of the skill of their directors or through
other accidents. Second-class theater undoubtedly will die out in a short time.
The public, which found this sort of thing to their taste, has, in the movies,
a much more luxurious substitute: death and homicide in abundance. Comedy until
you burst. Juicy melodrama. And the movie actor with his heavy-handed emphases
– for example, in a tragic, many-colored story of adultery (in period costumes)
– surpasses the hammy Hamlet in heart-gripping effect.
Theaters that want to survive are
compelled to think again about what they are doing. Directors must cultivate
the pure art of theater. Actors – in contrast to "filmers", or better
still "ciners" or "cinekers" – to maintain their
reputations, must abandon all tricks and gimmicks. The public that goes to the
theater in spite of movies is discriminating and can’t be taken in.
There cannot be too many movies. As
a member of the cultural police I would order that half a dozen be opened on
every street.
The more people rush into the
movies, the more a part of the fraud will become tiresome. Of the hundred
thousands who throng the movies, a few hundred every year will return once more
to the theater.
The number of theaters in the future
will be smaller, but their average quality will be disproportionately better.
The incompetent directors, dramatists, and other squabblers, who until now were
parasites on the theater, will find in movie-making a place more suited to
their capabilities. The many mediocre and bad actors who now help keep prices
down and block the way will become wonderful cinikers. A talented shoemaker in
the future will not go to theater schools but to film schools. Lispers,
cripples, hunchbacks, mutes, and similar handicapped mimes will be able, more
easily and more happily, to find relief in the movies.
(The cinema of boundless
possibilities…)
But the theater, thanks to the
movies free of hindering ballast and harmful influences, will have to return to
the sacred dramatic art.
CHAPTER FROM A FRAGMENTARY NOVEL
translated by Harry Radford
Doctor Bryller did become a senior
teacher after all. A furious enemy of his had predicted such a destiny years
ago, in the out-of-date periodical "The Other A" . At that time he
was deeply distressed about this insight of his enemy, the truth of which,
after thinking intensely about it, he could not deny. He wrote an intemperate
article which was not accepted for publication anywhere. And one evening he got
a little drunk on French sparkling wine, to kill the innate fear which
prevented him from beating up his enemy. But his cowardice did not leave him,
even in drunkenness. Unspeakably unhappy, he gave up the idea of taking
revenge.
Now in earnest he began to live a
solitary and transfigured life. He let this be known in an in flammatory
manner, just as he had so often done when announcing the agenda of a new trend
in art. And with the profoundest solemnity, as though he were at an important
funeral. He even exploited his failure in order to feel superior. In point of
fact, he lived hardly differently than before. The only change was that he had
actually become more hopeless in an emotional sense. Now he had to calm himself
with the thought: Even if I could achieve what I wanted to, I would achieve
nothing. While previously his line of thinking ran: Unfortunately it is
indeed true that I can achieve nothing, but what I can achieve is rather good.
Practically minded as Berthold
Bryller was in certain ways, he was able to cast his weaknesses in common human
terms, so that the despair, which at first had revealed itself in hysterical
attacks of a special kind, soon gave way -- except in rare conditions -- to a
feeling of lofty indifference. He still wrote his impudent and careless
letters, which did him considerable harm; he published particularly clever,
slightly demented essays in the few journals with whose editors he didn't
happen to be quarreling with; he founded both clubs which then expelled him,
and periodicals in which he was attacked. Everywhere, and in other ways, he
continued to make himself impossible even by his very presence. The uninitiated
might interpret his absence from the Café Klößchen as a sign of his inward
transformation, if it were not for a poster fixed to the door of the Cafe:
No admittance to Bryller!
which suggested that an argument
with the manager was the reason for his absence.
But gradually the hopelessness of
his literary existence became inescapable to Doctor Bryller, who was certainly
no idiot. In addition, his funds for the foreseeable future were exhausted. So,
incapable of killing himself if it were to become necessary, he had to focus
his energy on working to earn a living. His writing activity was financially
unsuccessful. He would not have the heart to take a permanent literary job --
something like an editorship -- aside from the fact that no one would take him.
What other option did he have but to use the rest of his money to continue his
interrupted university training, take the necessary state examinations, and
then find himself a secure and pleasant position as a senior teacher. In point
of fact, this profession seemed thoroughly comfortable to him. Convinced of the
incorrigibility of human imperfection, which he had experienced first hand, and
utterly convinced of the complete uselessness of physical and intellectual
striving, he gladly gave free rein to any and all base impulse. He could
satisfy his cravings for power, his other ambitions, even his erotic needs,
most readily as a senior teacher.
Despite his moodiness and frequent
peculiar behaviour, Doctor Bryller was one of the most popular teachers at the
Horror High School. The small pupils idolized him, the bigger ones clung to him
passionately. Of course there also were pupils who didn't like him. For
example, the second-year pupil Max Mechenmal whose face he had slapped a few
times without obvious reason. This could have had the most unpleasant
consequences for Doctor Berthold Bryller. On the occasion of the teacher
meeting called by director Rudolf Richter after the highly indignant complaint
of the pupil, a large majority of the colleagues, unlike the pupils, turned out
to have unfriendly feelings for the Doctor. When he, questioned about why he
had pupil, smilingly replied that Mechenmal displeased him, they wanted to
recommend to the authorities, following the suggestion of the respected
colleague Lothar Laaks, that he be removed for a considerable time for the
purpose of mental recovery in a sanatorium. Only the happenstance that the
aggrieved pupil Mechenmal was hated equally by teachers and pupils, because of
his overfriendly awkwardness and his malicious secret rabble-rousing, impeded
such a decision. Although colleague Laaks -- the only one who found words of
appreciation for Mechenmal -- advocated it heatedly with the use of much dirty
dialectic. The colleagues were content to warn Doktor Bryller of the
inappropriateness of his behavior.
One day, about a half year before
the final incarceration of Berthold Bryller for life, in an insane asylum
subsidized by the state, a yelling arose in the schoolyard of the Horror High
School. A crowd of mostly smaller pupils surged behind a dwarfish, care-worn,
lop-sided boy whose back showed the slight beginnings of a hump. They teased
him cheerfully and spitefully -- the words were unintelligible because of the
noise but surely malicious. He was pushed so that he stumbled. Many older high
school pupils looked on, amused at the lively rough-housing. Even senior
teacher Laaks, who was supervising, failed to suppress an amused smile. In a
window was the motionless face of Doctor Bryller.
The malformed boy continued walking
without defending himself. With bent head. Often he had to wipe his eyes with
his hand. Only once, when one of most impudent youths – who else but the
second-year pupil Mechenmal -- spat into his face while the others raucously
clapped approval, did he throw himself sobbing deeply against the attacker, who
immediately ran away. Through the middle of the shrieking crowd, which blocked
his way in all directions, the crying humpback pursued his schoolmate. Perhaps
he would have reached Mechenmal if the perennial fourth-year pupil Spinoza
Spass hadn't suddenly grasped his hump as if with a hook. Spinoza Spass grinned
comfortably and maliciously into the monkey-shaped, longingly apathetic face,
as he propelled the little despairing Kohn like a weight slowly through the
sunny spring air. By this heroic deed he became one of the most famous
fourth-year pupils of the Horror High School.
Some sympathetic older high school
pupils put an early end to the strange spectacle. The gaunt, pale senior Paulus
snatched the tiny unfortunate boy from the venemously peering Spass and
threatened to beat up anyone who annoyed the lop-sided little Kohn further. For
fear of Paulus and some other like-minded boys, they left the flushed humpback
in peace -- at least for the time being. He walked along, pressing himself
against the gray walls. And would have most happily sunk into the ground. When
the school bell rang, he was glad to disappear into the classrooms.
The senior Peter Paulus was already
walking along the somewhat dark corridor to the spacious room in which the
parish priest Leopold Lehmann gave Hebrew lessons to the pupils in the upper
classes, when the senior teacher Laaks caught up with him, called to him, and
engaged him in a mysterious, very excited conversation. Laaks was apparently
reprimanding Paulus. It was strange, however, that he didn't look like a
teacher chastising a pupil, but rather like a mistrustful relative who believes
himself taken advantage of in an inheritance matter. The behavior of the senior
was also by no means the behavior of a subordinate ...
The discussion between the two must
have lasted a very long time. For when Peter Paulus entered more pale than
usual and explained that his late arrival was caused by an official conversation,
the priest Lehmann had long since concluded the topic of that day’s curriculum.
He was engaged in a religious discussion which, following the modern trend, he
linked regularly to the Hebrew lesson. They were speaking at the moment about
God and the nature of student life, but came, after a few unimportant
discussions, to the main topic: abortion and the inner life, which gave them
pause. The discussion was triggered by a report in an art journal that someone
had cut out and brought for the purpose of discussion. The priest read out
loud:
Collapse
of the famous dancer Lola Lalà
A
correspondent has wired us that the famed variety dancer Lola Lalà, who also
appears under the name Lo Lálalà and whose maiden name is Leni Levi, had to be
taken to a lunatic asylum, which caused a tremendous sensation. The pitiful
woman had been found toward morning in a wheat field, stark naked in her
birthday suit, crying bitterly and smoking a large cigar. Mr Gottschalk Schulz,
a poet of sensitivity, has published a moving poem about this in the
"Newspaper for Enlightened Citizens". It has a piquant attraction
because -- so it is rumored and probably correctly -- the poet maintained quite
warm relations with the poor and charming dancer. Therefore this beautiful poem
will not be withheld from our readers: --
The poem had the heading: Smoke on
the Field. The priest didn't read it out, however, because it was too smutty.
Also it was not relevant. Instead he read:
As I
learn further from a special, authentic source in the late evening, the cause
of the mental collapse of the dancer is said to have been a fright caused by a
burglary that happened after an abortion that was carried out
successfully. A court-ordered investigation is underway.
After this the priest started to talk
about abortion by saying: "Human knowledge reaches its pinnacle in the
realization that he is the most highly developed earthly being. No one can deny
this." He didn't notice the deliberately exaggerated and suppressed
laughter of a few boys. And he slowly continued. He condemned abortion as
disagreeable to God from a religious and socio-political point of view. In
conclusion, he said: "We are modern. We don't shrink from treating
offensive questions with moral seriousness."
The only one who contradicted him
was Peter Paulus. He fell -- outwardly calm -- into such a rage that he said:
"If I were a doctor, Father, I myself would -- ". In reply the priest
said heatedly: "Do you believe in God, Paulus?" And Peter Paulus said
only: "No". A few minutes before the end of the class, he was
expelled from the Hebrew lesson because of social democratic leanings and
godlessness.
He left defiantly. Slammed the door.
When the widowed prison chaplain
Christian Kohn had to give his only child, who was mentally ill and had heart
disease, to an institution, he adopted -- nobody knows why -- a little cripple.
There was much gossip. The most obstinate rumor was that the cripple, Kuno, was
a natural son of the chaplain. The mother was said to be the popular Trude, who
had been convicted of manslaughter after shooting her disloyal pimp. Trude had
been pardoned, with the rejoicing approval of the whole village, because it had
turned out that she was pregnant. It was claimed that the sympathetic chaplain
had caused Trude's pregnancy. But this was not proved.
Kuno Kohn spent the half-awake first
part of his youth in the dreary stone rooms and yards of the penitentiary. His
adoptive father had little concern for the boy. He was absent for weeks at a
time. Left in the care of a morose servant, whose main occupation was to manage
the miserable financial affairs of the chaplain, and lacking sufficient care,
lacking playmates, lacking stimulation and love, the crippled child could not
develop. Remained always dwarfish. He slunk around, pale and dreamy.
Intimidated and timorous. Toward evening, bold shadows and horrific noises
teemed on the twisty stairs with their grated windows, and in the great gloomy
halls and passages. A more robust boy would have ignored such peripheral
things, if he had noticed them at all. But on Kuno Kohn the most insignificant
thing left a deep impression, the most minor thing had meaning, and horrified
him. Everywhere and from everything he feared disaster. Nothing was familiar to
him. The eternal fear made him into a little darting ghost himself, and gave
his consumptive eyes a phosphorescent glow. If he was sent out late at night,
perhaps to get milk or kerosene, he would pray in feverish fervor to dear God.
He would come back breathless and white as chalk.
More than anything, Kuno Kohn was
afraid of the thousand-fold darkness before falling asleep. In the past, a tiny
lamp had been put into the room for him; the reddish melancholy glow calmed him
a little. On the soft wall the strangest grimaces and battles appeared, but
also tin soldiers marching and a delightful jumble of fairies and cake plates
and queens, until sleep came. After a time, the chaplain decided not to allow
any more such mollycoddling of the soul of his son. Kuno would have to live in
the dark. Gone was the tiny bit of visibility. The innumerable incomprehensible
events of chaos rolled about the little boy. More of the world pressed into the
small bedroom of the humpback than the entire day had contained. Kuno Kohn had
lost the body that was supposed to lie in the bed: only fright and helplessness
and longing were left. The worst was when the desolate indistinctness took on
the shape of visions or touches. The Kohn boy then cried out despairingly.
Either the cry was not heard by anyone or it carried no clear meaning. In
prisons there are always yells in the night from somewhere. Kuno often lay for
a long time, until the unfathomable hole, which had so many incomprehensible
contents, admitted the lively pictures that brought dreams and sleep: burglars,
or perhaps a hackney cab journey in the sun, a visit to his little ill brother,
a game with street children, the dear, sad angel eyes of Maria Müller, for whom
he would gladly die.
The prisoners were Kuno Kohn's good
acquaintances. Not the guards; these were indeed quite friendly to him but
there was an instinctive suspicion underneath. On the other hand, the ruffians
and gamblers, sex killers and robbers, the most famous burglars, and most of
the other distinguished old-established residents welcomed the little humpback
warmly, by a slight nod of the head or almost imperceptible grin, whenever he
came to watch with wide-open dreamy eyes the silent gray work. Only the fences,
profiteers, confidence men, defrauders, swindlers, most of the bankrupts and some
of the pimps, remained indifferent. In the course of the year, Kuno Kohn had
made friends particularly with the youthful burglar Benjamin. The two often sat
for hours together. If the guards looked the other way ... Benjamin spoke
enthusiastically to the humpback. Of sun. And freedom. And of the redemption of
mankind. Kuno Kohn arranged Benjamin's secret traffic with the outside world
and did various favors for his friend; he provided him with cigarettes, books,
small tools. When once a volume of Goethe and a little cigarette ash were found
in Benjamin's cell, Kohn was suspected. After the escape of the burglar, which
happened shortly afterwards, which could have happened only with outside help,
a message was sent to the clergyman. He forbade his son the company of the
prisoners. The guards were not allowed to let him in any more.
The great problems that tormented
Kuno Kohn constantly, as soon as he was able to get his thoughts together to
some degree, were mainly death and God. At the age of four or five he did not
believe in death, at least not in his own. And he prayed to the dear God daily
before he lay down to sleep. "I am small, my heart is pure, no one shall
live there but God alone". But if he had done something during the day
that seemed sinful to him --- and that almost always happened --- he would add
(sitting in bed or standing if it was particularly bad) long and remorseful
monologues until he fell asleep, overfatigued, with fingers still folded and
tears in his eyes. If darkness and fear came, he always prayed. Gradually his
doubts increased, to the point where he had to believe in his own death and
abandon his faith in God. When he started school, there began the fullness of
suffering which some children find there.
The end
NOTES
ABOUT THE NOVEL
Lunatic
asylum: Bryller, Lola.
Drowning
in the sea: Kohn, Maria.
Suicide:
Schulz, Paulus.
Surviving:
Spinoza Spass, Laaks, Mechenmal.
I. Appearance in the schoolyard.
Peter Paulus for Kohn, Laaks against him (Kohn had filled his pants, Max Mechenmal).
Later, Kohn joining Paulus against Laaks. Jealousy scenes. Because of Laaks'
intrigues, Paulus fails the College Board Exam and shoots himself dead.
Farewell letters (touching for Kohn, official funeral, Kohn runs away from it).
Senior teacher Dr. Bryller takes no
action, even encourages Paulus, his favorite pupil, to kill himself: Kill
yourself before it is too late (as long as you are still capable of it). It
doesn't have any purpose, of course, but will give you something like
satisfaction. (God is a temporal phenomenon.)
The corpse was carried well-packed
in a box to the graveyard, where it was buried for eternity under a cloakroom
marker.
II. Scene Kohn, Laaks in bathtub.
Laaks made an attack on Max's
femininity. -- Laaks and Kohn meet. Kohn greets him, Laaks catches up. Invites
him to visit. "No, Mr Laaks". Kohn trembles -- "Would you like
to take a bath?" -- "I have already bathed." -- Moonlight shines
on the two in the bathtub. In hairy nakedness -- his hairy legs, like a woman's
-- a man's man.
III. Scene in homosexual bar.
(You see, my boy, that's life -- he
pinched him tenderly on the bottom.)
IV. Abortion scene.
The variety dancer Lola Lalà: The
clever woman said jokingly: When women break down, they remain standing for a
long time. -- Farewell, young lady. Lola Lalà, alias Lene Levi, runs as though
insane.
V. Burglary scene at Lola's:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The
professional burglar Benjamin, lying under the bed, didn't know what to think.
His head shook and his skull hit a senseless bedpost, which gave off a fixed
tone. Benjamin was frightened. The lamp fell over. The curtains ignited
immediately.
Suddenly she (Lola Lalà) also became
frightened. Everything slurped up by licking fire. Ran out. Shut the door.
Locked it. Twice. Senseless. Suddenly, pitiful masculine shouts from behind the
door: Help, help. She screamed: Murderer, murderer, murderer. Ran. Onto the
street in the peace of the evening: People coming out of houses. Helpless. She
ran by all of them. Murderer, murderer ... A crazy woman came up behind her. A
dog catcher was able to grasp her. Murderer, murderer. Took her in an open
hackney cab and through the town. Murderer, murderer. Windows go up, cars stop.
Running about. Into lunatic section of the hospital.
In the meantime, burning room.
Burglar Benjamin thrashing at the window: Help. Forbidden action. Help. One
shouldn’t become a social democrat that way. Wailing: a police trap, to let
decent people burn in a fire. Help, help. Fire department comes. Help. Water
sprays him. From the frying pan into the fire. He can even jump right now into
the river. Drowns.
When the half-decayed corpse was
pulled from the water, the doctor, still drunk, began to make bad jokes. Dr.
Bryller vomited.
All talking, thinking, writing is
useless; a corpse pulled from the water, lying dead in front of you, ruins
everything written with its terrible distortion. See how the face and the hands
are rigid as though clamped in iron! As though they are screaming to get out of
themselves!
VI. Lunatic asylum scene: the insane
red-haired sister of Martin Müller (Maria).
"The earth is getting
dark", said Maria, the insane red-haired sister of Martin Müller. (She loves
her brother). She strokes little Kohn, but says: "I can love only
saints". All around were the melodies of the evening, which conceal
everything as with a silk veil: the green trees, the longing earth, the bench
with the red-haired girl and the little humpback.
In the lunatic asylum: one inmate, a
lady with hair already rather gray, said: "If one stops here too long, one
stays." -- A modern writer who imagines he is there only to study
the milieu, but who has, in reality, a softening of the brain, etc.
VII. Kohn's first lover (on Laaks'
order): Hysterical person, the bugs really crept around in the kitchen.
VIII. The end of Dr. Bryller.
IX. Schulz the writer and Kitty the
cocotte.
(Kitty said "Not so loud"
as Schulz was telling her about God.)
X. Lecture of the scholar Neumann:
Sensation: A barely sixteen year old
scholar named Neumann speaks about maternity regulations and the bringing up of
children -- it doesn't seem to him the place to talk about fallen girls --
women have understood that it is right and proper to stay where they belong --
the misery of prostitution -- posed gestures. Voice. Raise the eyebrows. I must
express myself in extremes. I must decidedly condemn zionism as a special
variety of prostitution. Maternity regulations: The mother must be protected
against her children (new sensational concept), a lady said. --- She, a German
specialist, contributed to the debate: "In the place where you have left
your faith, there you must fetch it".
XI. Kohn’s second lover: Teenager
(in one hand she had an illustrated astronomy text).
He loved her in this way: He
frequently made a note if she said something funny to use it later
(literarily). But in a cafe on a pond -- everywhere it was already evening, and
haze hung like veil on the trees and tables and waiters -- he took out his
notebook from the torn inside pocket of his overcoat and read to her quietly
... She laughed and he laughed -- more quietly and sadly. Each thought: This
isn't the right thing ... she thought further: he isn't thoughtful ... he
thought further: the poor thing, how distant she is from me ... then they went
rowing.
XII. Bar scene in Nuremberg:
Kunstmayer.
They are all blissfully drunk and
can hardly speak clearly anymore. Slurring. someone says: "Dede do
dadä". – What are these brutish sleepers worth? -- "See how the gaze
of this worker is turned inward like an ox's eye ", said Paulus.
"The upper-crust ten thousand
rule the world", grumbled the waiter bitterly; then he played a wild
variation of "Sweetie, You Are the Apple of My Eye" on a mouth organ.
From time to time, he beat against the edge of a table. He rubbed his hand
clean on his sleeve or trouser leg.
Karl Kunstmayer, a revue performer
down on his luck: I like to tell dirty jokes ... a great guy, philosophically
tip-top, but is too ideal --
They were in a melancholy mood.
Kunstmayer sang quietly: "The girls like this so much".
XIII. Drowning in the sea.
I am afraid that the girl has also
drowned. My rival had an accident at sea (drowned). "It is vulgar that you
can at most only make a poem about this, or suddenly find the ending for a
story", yelled the dead Kohn. While they walked along, they found white
newspaper flyers about the event everywhere. --- "That is a
brutality", said another. "This is the correct expression". --
"Finally!" sighed another, relieved. Kohn yelled: "But I don't
want to have an ending for a story. That is vulgar. I'm losing my mind. I want
to inflame you. I want to torment you, not satisfy you. You must moan and wail.
You must dissolve in pain." The dead Kohn was not noticed.
Detective Daniel
A thunderstorm was making a racket.
The detective Daniel woke with a start from his sleep. He said: "Damned
disturbance of the peace". There was an agitated knock on the door. The
dancer Lola Lalà came in.
"There are much too few
burglars", detective Daniel said. "There are fewer murderers than you
think", Daniel said, calming the anxious woman.
Max Mechenmal
He took the young thing, after he
had first inquired about her age, having in mind only erotic things, planning
to speak words of love to her and privately making fun of it; in other words,
he is a downright bad fellow. Somewhat proud of knowing just how bad a
character he was, he calmed himself down and decided to rape the girl.
Berthold Bryller
"Kuno Kohn is the same in green
as pupil Else Lasker is in blue", Bryller said.
If he wanted to get rid of a girl,
he told her in a wonderfully touching way about his syphilis, presenting
himself as a martyr who is making a sacrifice for the sake of her health. Most
girls, crying, took him for an important and very noble man. Only one asked
impudently one time why he didn't say that before.
Contrast between the devil-may-care
skillful nihilism of Bryller and the pure despair of Paulus.
Senior teacher Laaks
I have longing, love and who knows
what else for her. -- Funny things could happen.
Lola Lalà
She boasted about her now-and-then
and piece-wise virginity.
She said: as already mentioned, I am
visibly frightened. --- I find this silly, with good reason. --- These really
short lines. --- He loves me only erotically. --- In fact, I always lie. --- He
was very fond of me. --- As is well known, every dancer has a friend. ---