Extinction (44 page)

them
. It went without saying that
I
should have received them, all of them, without exception, Caecilia said, and Amalia seconded this. All of them had asked after me as soon as they arrived, even before going to the Orangery to pay their last respects to my parents and my brother. I had avoided all these people, I had lain low in the most craven fashion. They had looked all over for me and had other people look for me, but I had evaded these naturally tiresome proceedings, playing an artful game of hide-and-seek. That had
always
been my way. So should I have stood at the door all the time, shaking hands with them and repeating the same words over and over again? I asked. That was what they had demanded of me, I said—that I should stand at the door with them, wearing a fittingly solemn mien, and receive the guests as they arrived. I didn’t do you this favor, I told them, because I wasn’t up to it. Even before leaving Rome I decided not to stand at the door. Before I left Rome I knew what this funeral would be like.
Dreadful
, I said, with every possible attendant horror. But it’ll soon be over, I said, and all the horrors will be over. This is neither the time nor the place for hypocrisy. The whole thing has nothing to do with mourning—it’s all theater, I said. Our parents no longer exist. There’s nothing lying in the Orangery but
three bodies consigned to decay
, I said, which no longer have anything to do with the human beings they once were. What’s left is pure theater. And I have neither the desire nor the ambition to be gaped at as the principal actor. We naturally all spoke softly, so as not to be overheard, so that no one would understand what we were saying, supposing that someone was eavesdropping, which I thought quite possible. From time to time people knocked on the locked door but then stopped, although they certainly did not know what we were doing inside. Our private supper was after all only a device for being alone and undisturbed, my sisters must have thought, but that was not how it worked out, as the repeated knocking gave us hardly any peace. We were all highly agitated, as may be imagined. My sisters told me that about eighty people had already arrived and would be staying the night. I remarked that most of them would be attending the funeral just so that they could have a break in this beautiful part of the world and for no other reason. It’s the right time of
year, I said, and they’ll all get it more or less for free. After all, we’re paying their bills—they’ll all be paid out of the Wolfsegg coffers. I’d gladly pay for all these people to have a break somewhere else, so that I wouldn’t have to see them. But now I have them in the house. I did not say, Now we have them in the house—I said, Now I have them in the house, speaking as the sole proprietor.
We mustn’t deceive ourselves
, I said—
funerals are never anything but theater
. No sooner had I said this than I realized that I had gone too far and wished I had held back. I wished I had not said a word, but I had said so many words, so many senseless words, all of which showed me in an impossible light. Hearing me talk, people must think I’m the worst character in the world, I thought, but there are undoubtedly much worse characters. To divert attention from my outbursts of fury, especially against the funeral guests who had been accommodated at the house, I told my sisters that Rome meant everything to me, that I could no longer live anywhere else. Suddenly they woke up and did not understand me. Really, I said, I have only to think of Rome and I can’t wait to be back there—and I’ve been here only a few hours. I find it quite bizarre that this morning I was still in Rome, I said. Then I asked whether Spadolini had called. Yes, I was told, he had called from Rome to say that he would naturally be coming, this evening; he did not know how he would be traveling, but he would be arriving today. So we all waited for the archbishop, Mother’s lover, the illustrious Spadolini. Gambetti always reproaches me with being unable to control myself, I told my sisters, but I’ve always been uncontrolled and unpredictable, and I’ve always relied on people’s making allowances for my lack of control. My lack of control, and the lack of consideration that goes with it. But of course that’s expecting too much. In Rome I’m quite different, I said. There I don’t get so excited, so out of control, and I’m not so unpredictable. Rome calms me down—Wolfsegg works me up. Rome has a soothing effect on the nerves, even though it’s the most exciting city in the world, but at Wolfsegg I’m always agitated, even though it’s so peaceful here. I’m a victim of this paradox, I said. In Rome I express myself quite differently, I talk to everyone quite differently. Gambetti once told me, I said, that whenever I returned from Wolfsegg I talked in a very agitated manner, but only when I’d been to Wolfsegg. On that occasion I had told Gambetti that my family was to blame. He said that my thinking got out of phase with its normal rhythm, what
might be called its
Roman rhythm
. Gambetti had often said that he hardly knew me when I had been to Wolfsegg and could never have made friends with the kind of person I was at such times, since I had an entirely different persona, quite the opposite of what might be called my Roman persona. He could not stand my Wolfsegg persona; he liked only my Roman persona. He said that when I returned from Wolfsegg it took me several days to revert to my Roman persona and become once more the kind of person who was useful to him as a teacher, the kind of person to whom he could be a friend, a pupil, and a conversational partner. He could be none of these when I was in my Wolfsegg mood. Gambetti maintains that Wolfsegg’s bad for me, I told my sisters, that two or three days at Wolfsegg are enough to throw me off balance for several weeks. I’ve never understood what it is that throws me off balance at Wolfsegg. I don’t know whether it’s the landscape, the people, or the air, though the air here is the best I know—the air at Wolfsegg is superb. Is it more to do with the buildings or more to do with the people? I don’t know. It’s Wolfsegg as a whole, I said. It was ridiculous to entertain such thoughts, and not only to entertain them but to express them, given that I had become heir to Wolfsegg
overnight
and had taken it over, as my sisters were bound to believe. It was not that I was
going
to take it over—I had already done so, I thought. They were forced to take the question of the succession seriously. They could not imagine that I would not comply—in every detail and with all the consequences that compliance entailed. Despite the fact that they had not heard most of what I had been thinking and therefore did not know the drift of my thoughts, I suddenly said to them, I’m not a farmer, the sort of man who gets on a tractor, as Father did. I’m not a tractor man, and I’ve no wish to haggle with warehouse managers over a bag of artificial fertilizer because it’s only half full and I’ve paid for a full bag.
I’m not Johannes
, I said.
My parents overlooked the fact that I’m not Johannes
. I had intended to elaborate on this last remark, but there was such a persistent knocking at the door that Caecilia went to unlock it. The wine cork manufacturer wanted to be let in. Without saying a word, he went and sat at the table where a place was set for him. You were wrong, I thought, he hasn’t been down to the village to drink. My brother-in-law was in fact sober. His wife put a piece of meat on his plate and poured him a glass of wine. He had been in the Gardeners’ House all the time, he said by way of excuse. Out of
sheer exhaustion he had retired to the Gardeners’ House and fallen asleep there. He had been up at three that morning, or so he said, because my sisters wanted him to go to the village and see various craftsmen and shopkeepers in connection with the funeral. And he had suddenly had a
headache
. It had been pleasantly cool in the Gardeners’ House. Was everything coming along all right? he asked. He immediately started to eat, as if he was famished, though I recalled that he had eaten only two or two and a half hours earlier, when he was in the kitchen with me. Unable to stand the sight of my brother-in-law eating, I got up and went out. If I get away from my brother-in-law and my sisters, I thought, I’ll avoid giving offense, and so I went down to the entrance hall, paying no attention to the people standing around, who at once turned and looked at me. I put on a suffering look, as they say, and went into the chapel, where I sat down in one of the middle pews. The chapel was agreeably cool. It’s quite obvious why it’s used for storing food, I thought. Without thinking, I
knelt down
, but when I realized what I had done I got up and sat in the pew. Suddenly I sensed the presence of our aunt from Titisee. I turned around. I was not mistaken. She had her constant companion with her, a niece of twelve or thirteen. The old lady was veiled and garbed almost wholly in black, in honor of her dead brother. Sensing that she was observing me malevolently, I got up and left the chapel, but not without kissing her hand, which she stretched out from her black attire. I went through the hall, out into the park, and across to the Orangery, where two of the huntsmen stood guard. The smell of decomposition seemed to have become more pungent. I lifted the black sheets to check the blocks of ice under the coffins. They had obviously been renewed. I allowed myself only a quick glance at the faces of the dead, as I could not bear to look at them for longer. The two huntsmen had assumed a soldierly bearing, as they say, when I entered the Orangery. I found this repugnant. When I came out it seemed even more ludicrous, but there was nothing I could do to alter this whole distasteful ceremonial, which had been meticulously worked out by my sisters, more especially Caecilia, in accordance with the rules. They would not have dreamed of deviating from the funeral plan in the slightest detail. On the other hand, I thought, the ceremonial is in keeping with Wolfsegg, and it would be foolish to destroy it. Everything here
is done properly, I thought, even if one finds it displeasing. But the huntsmen on either side of the catafalque were undoubtedly comic figures, like tin soldiers outfitted by a stagestruck costumer. As I stood by the coffins the gardeners were changing the water in the flower buckets. Again I saw clearly how the huntsmen differed from the gardeners: the huntsmen were ridiculous and artificial, the gardeners natural. I was prompted to wonder what it was that made the huntsmen so different from the gardeners, what they stood for, and it gave me great pleasure to pursue this speculation, quite untroubled by the fact that I was in the presence of the dead. There’s no outward clue to what I’m thinking, nothing to indicate that I’m thinking about the difference between the huntsmen and the gardeners, I thought, let alone that I’m thinking about the mentalities of the huntsmen and the gardeners and the relation between the two mentalities. People will suppose that I’m thinking about the funeral, I thought, but as I stood in front of the coffins, right next to the bodies, I was not thinking about the funeral at all. The gardeners are sensitive people, I thought, whereas the huntsmen represent a brutalized world. The fact that we employ both at Wolfsegg is what gives the place its charm. Wolfsegg has great charm for anyone intent upon seeing only the charm. Visitors to Wolfsegg always speak of its special charm. And it’s possible to see Wolfsegg that way, as the most charming country estate imaginable. But I can no longer see it that way. I never could, I thought. I can no longer stand it; I’ve ruined it for myself, I thought as I went out. The park was deserted. The rest of the family’s still having supper, I thought, looking up at the windows over the balcony. There are three of
them
too, I told myself—my brother-in-law, Caecilia, and Amalia. Maybe they’ve locked themselves in. How can I escape this inner turmoil? I asked myself. My conduct is bound to offend everyone: not just my sisters, not just my brother-in-law, but everyone. Yet I’m not at all the offensive person they’ve always called me, ever since I was a child, I thought. Then I immediately told myself that I
was
just such an offensive person. I had told Gambetti that I would have to discuss everything very carefully with my sisters and bring my brother-in-law in on our discussions. I’ll approach everything cautiously, I had told him. I had repeatedly told Zacchi and Maria the same—that I must proceed with caution at Wolfsegg. But I’m not proceeding with the least caution, I
thought. I’ve shown no consideration for anything or anyone. No wonder they feel I am inconsiderate, even mean, since my behavior has been totally inconsiderate. But it’s been quite simply impossible to behave otherwise, I told myself, it’s been impossible for me to act differently toward them. I can’t cope with this whole situation, and I’m not responsible for it, I didn’t
will it
. At that moment Spadolini arrived. I took him straight up to see my sisters, and Caecilia showed him to my father’s room, where he said he would like to freshen up. Meanwhile I sat in the upper left library. It had been locked, but I had obtained the keys of all our libraries from Caecilia. I’ll open all five libraries tomorrow morning, I thought, before the funeral proceedings begin. I had seated myself in a chair by the window with a copy of
Siebenkäs
, but of course I was too agitated to be able to read. And I could not take my mind off Spadolini. The tremendous impression he had once more made on me was more potent than
Siebenkäs
, and so I put the book down. I had known that
Siebenkäs
was in this library, together with other books from Jean Paul’s period. At some stage one of our ancestors, no one knew which, had arranged the books in our libraries. They must have been cultured people, I thought, unlike the present lot. But what do we mean by
cultured?
I asked myself. If we say that someone is cultured and someone else isn’t, we’re talking nonsense, I thought—we say it unthinkingly. Spadolini was carrying only a small black traveling bag, I thought as I sat by the window. I could hear him showering, as the library was next to my father’s room. I imagined him enjoying himself under the shower. I’ve never known Spadolini not to enjoy himself, I thought. I stretched out my legs, turned off the light, and thought about my meeting with Maria, whom I had given a manuscript to look through. Like all my manuscripts, it’s sloppily written, I thought. When I’m back in Rome she’ll go through it with me and take it to pieces, and then I’ll throw it away, like everything else of mine that I’ve given her to read. I’ve thrown away more manuscripts than I’ve kept, I thought, and those that I’ve kept I can’t bear to look at; they depress me because they present my thoughts in a ludicrous form that’s not worth talking about. My manuscripts are worthless, I told myself, but I haven’t given up trying to write things down, to do violence to the intellect, as it were. Maria is ruthlessly honest and treats my manuscripts as they deserve, I thought. Having thrown