Selected Stories (14 page)

[1917]

So! I’ve Got You

O
NE
who could not trust his eyes looked at the door of a room to see if it was closed.
Indeed it was closed, and properly to be sure, there was no reason to doubt it. The
door was definitely closed, but he who did not trust his eyes did not believe it,
sniffed about the door with his nose, so that he could smell if it was closed or not.
It was really and truly closed. Without question it was closed. It was by no means
open. By all means it was closed. Undoubtedly the door was closed. Doubt was in no
way to be feared; he who did not trust his eyes, however, doubted strongly that the
door was actually closed, although he clearly saw how tightly it was shut. It was
as tightly shut as those doors which cannot on the whole be shut any tighter, but
he who did not trust his eyes was still a long way from being convinced of that. He
stared hard at the door and asked it if it was closed. “Door, tell me, are you closed?”
he asked, but the door gave no answer. It was, anyway, not at all necessary that it
answered, since it was closed. The door was perfectly in order, but he who did not
trust his eyes did not trust the door, did not believe that it was in order, continued
to doubt that it was in order. “Are you really shut or are you not shut?” he asked
again, but of course the door anew gave no answer. Can one demand of a door that it
give an answer? Again the door was looked at suspiciously to find out if it was truly
closed. At last he comprehended that it was closed, at last he was convinced of it.
Thereupon he laughed loudly, was very happy that he could laugh, and said to the door:
“So! I’ve got you,” and with this fine expression he was satisfied and went to his
daily work. Is not such a person a fool? Certainly! but he was just one who doubted
everything.

Once he wrote a letter. After he had it quite ready, i.e., had completely finished
it, he looked askance at the letter, for once again he did not trust his eyes and
was not close to believing he had written a letter. The letter had, however, certainly
been written, there was no doubt about it, but, as with the door, he who did not trust
his eyes sniffed about the letter with his nose, was the height of suspicion and wondered
if the letter was really written now or not. Without doubt it was written, it was
definitely written, but he who did not trust his eyes was in no way convinced of it,
rather he smelled, as I said, cautiously and carefully around the letter and asked
in a loud cry: “Letter, tell me, are you written or not?” The letter naturally did
not give the slightest answer. Since when can letters give speeches and answers? The
letter was perfectly in order, quite ready, readable, and nicely written word by word,
sentence by sentence. Splendid and proper stood the letters, periods, commas, semicolons,
question marks, and exclamation points, and the delicate quotation marks all in place.
Not a dot on an
i
was missing in the great work; he, however, who had written the masterpiece of a
letter and unfortunately did not trust his eyes, was in no way convinced of all that,
rather asked anew: “Are you in order, letter?” It gave, however, no answer again,
naturally. For that it was again looked askance at and considered obliquely. At last
the dumb person knew he had really and truly written the letter, and for that reason
laughed joyfully and loudly, was happy like a small child, rubbed his hands full of
pleasure, folded the letter together, stuck it exultantly in a suitable envelope,
and said: “So! I’ve got you,” about which fine expression he was uncommonly delighted.
Thereupon he went to his daily work. Is not such a person a fool? Indeed, but he was
just one who believed in nothing, one who did not come out from sorrows, distress,
and doubt, one who, as I said, doubted everything.

One other time, he wanted to drink a glass of red wine which was before him, but he
wouldn’t dare do it, because again he did not trust his eyes. No doubt there was the
glass of wine. Without doubt, the glass of wine stood there in every respect, and
the question, if it stood there or did not stand there, was thoroughly absurd and
silly. Any average person would have immediately comprehended the glass of wine, but
he who did not trust his eyes did not comprehend it, did not believe it, looked at
the glass of wine for a good half hour, sniffed about it with his fool nose a meter
long, as with the letter, and asked: “Glass of wine, tell me, are you really there
or are you really not there?” The question was superfluous, since the glass of wine
was there, that was fact. It gave no answer, naturally, to the dumb question. A glass
of wine gives no answer, it is simply there and wants to be drunk, which is better
than all talking and answering. Our good glass of wine was suspiciously sniffed at
with the nose from all sides, like the letter before, and stared at with the eyes,
like the door before. “Are you at bottom there, or aren’t you there?” was asked again,
and again no answer was forthcoming. “So drink it then, so taste it, let yourself
enjoy it, then you will have felt and experienced it, and its existence will no longer
be in doubt to you,” one would have liked to shout at him, him who did not trust his
eyes, who looked at the glass of wine mistrustfully, instead of putting it to his
lips. He was still a long way from being convinced. He went into still more delicate
and lengthy details; at last, however, he seemed to have comprehended it, finally
he believed that there was in fact a glass of wine under his nose. “So! I’ve got you,”
he said, laughed loudly like a child, rubbed his hands again in pleasure, smacked
his tongue, gave himself a sound slap on the head out of purely foolish and immense
joy, took the glass of wine carefully into his hands and drank it up, was satisfied
at that, and thereupon went to his daily work. Is not such a person an arrant fool?
Surely, but he was just one who did not trust his ears or eyes, one who did not have
a single calm minute due to sincerely sensitive and overly sensitive deliberation,
one who was unhappy whenever the least thing failed to pass or work exactly, a fool
for order and punctuality, a fool for accuracy and precision, one who should have
been sent and driven into a School of Thoughtlessness, one who, in God’s name, as
I said, doubted everything.

[1917]

Translated by Tom Whalen and Carol Gehrig

Nothing at All

A
WOMAN
who was only just a little flighty went to town to buy something good for supper
for herself and her husband. Of course, many a woman has gone shopping and in so doing
been just a little absentminded. So in no way is this story new; all the same, I shall
continue and relate that the woman who had wanted to buy something good for supper
for herself and her husband and for this reason had gone to town did not exactly have
her mind on the matter. Over and over she considered what delights and delicacies
she could buy for herself and her husband, but since she didn’t, as already mentioned,
exactly have her mind on the matter and was a little absentminded, she came to no
decision, and it seemed that she did not exactly know what she really wanted. “It
must be something that can be made quickly since it’s already late, my time is limited,”
she thought. God! She was, you know, only just a little flighty and did not exactly
have her mind on the matter. Impartiality and objectivity are fine and good. But the
woman here was not particularly objective, rather a little absentminded and flighty.
Over and over she considered but came, as already mentioned, to no decision. The ability
to make a decision is fine and good. But this woman possessed no such ability. She
wanted to buy something really good and delicious for herself and her husband to eat.
And for this fine reason she went to town; but she simply did not succeed, she simply
did not succeed. Over and over she considered. She wasn’t lacking in good will, she
certainly wasn’t lacking in good intentions, she was just a little flighty, didn’t
have her mind on the matter, and therefore didn’t succeed. It isn’t good when minds
aren’t on the matter, and, in a word, the woman finally got disgusted, and she went
home with nothing at all.

“What delicious and good, exquisite and fine, sensible and intelligent food did you
buy for supper?” asked the husband when he saw his good-looking, nice little wife
come home.

She replied: “I bought nothing at all.”

“How’s that?” asked the husband.

She said: “Over and over I considered, but came to no decision, because the choice
was too difficult for me to make. Also it was already late, and my time was limited.
I wasn’t lacking in good will or the best of all intentions, but I just didn’t have
my mind on the matter. Believe me, dear husband, it’s really terrible when you don’t
keep your mind on a matter. It seems that I was only just a little flighty and because
of that I didn’t succeed. I went to town and I wanted to buy something truly delicious
and good for me and you, I wasn’t lacking in good will, over and over I considered,
but the choice was too difficult and my mind wasn’t on the matter, and therefore I
didn’t succeed, and therefore I bought nothing at all. We will have to be satisfied
today with nothing at all for once, won’t we. Nothing at all can be prepared most
quickly and, at any rate, doesn’t cause indigestion. Should you be angry with me for
this? I can’t believe that.”

So for once, or for a change, they ate nothing at all at night, and the good upright
husband was in no way angry, he was too chivalrous, too mannerly, and too well-behaved
for that. He would never have dared to make an unpleasant face, he was much too cultivated.
A good husband doesn’t do something like that. And so they ate nothing at all and
were both satisfied, for it tasted exceptionally good to them. His wife’s idea to
prefer nothing at all for a change the good husband found quite charming, and while
he maintained that he was convinced she had had a delightful inspiration, he feigned
his great joy, whereby he indeed concealed how welcome a nutritious, honest supper
like, e.g., a hearty, valiant apple mash would have been.

Many other things would have probably tasted better to him than nothing at all.

[1917]

Translated by Tom Whalen and Carol Gehrig

Kienast

K
IENAST
was the name of a man who wanted nothing to do with anything. Even in his youth he
stood out unpleasantly as an unwilling sort. As a child he gave his parents much grief,
and later, as a citizen, his fellow citizens. It didn’t matter what time of day you
wanted to talk to him, you would never get from him a friendly or fellowly word. Indignant,
invidious was his behavior, and his conduct was repulsive. Guys like this Kienast
probably believed it a sacrilege if they were kind or obliging to people. But have
no fear: he was neither kind nor courteous. Of that he wanted to hear nothing. “Nonsense,”
he grumbled at everything desiring his attention. “I’m really sorry, but I have no
time,” he was in the habit of angrily mumbling as soon as someone came to him with
a request. Those were duped folks who went to Kienast with a request. They didn’t
get much from him, because there was no trace of considerateness to be found in him.
He didn’t want to know even the least of it. Should Kienast once have done something
good for somebody, something which, so to say, was in the general interest, he would
have said coldheartedly, “Goodbye,
au revoir,
” by which he meant to say, “Please leave me alone.” He was interested only in personal
gain, and he had eyes only for his supreme profit. Everything else concerned him little
or preferably not at all. Of it he wanted to know absolutely nothing. Should anyone
expect a willingness or even a sacrifice of him, he nasaled, “What next, I wonder?”
by which he meant to say, “If you will be so kind as not to molest me with such matters.”
Or he said, “Remember me, please, it will make me happy,” or very simply just,
“Bonsoir.”
Community, church, and country seemed in no way to concern him. In his opinion, community
affairs were looked after solely by jackasses; whoever needed the church in any way
was in Kienast’s eyes a sheep, and for those who loved their country, he possessed
not the least understanding. Tell me, dear readers, you who are aglow with patriotism
for fatherland and motherland, what do you think should be done with the Kienasts?
Wouldn’t it be a splendid, yes even a sublime task to beat them in great haste and
with the proper carefulness to a pulp? Gently! It has been seen to that such gentlemen
will not remain eternally undisturbed. One day someone knocked at Kienast’s door,
someone who evidently did not allow himself to be turned away with a
“Bonjour”
or with a
“Bonsoir”
or with a “What next!” or with a “Sorry, I’m in a real hurry,” or with a “Please
leave me alone.” “Come, I can use you,” said the peculiar stranger. “You are really
exquisite. But what’s the matter with you? Do you think I have time to lose? That’s
the limit! Remember me, it will make me happy. Sorry I have no time, so goodbye,
au revoir.
” Such or similar things Kienast wanted to answer; however, as he opened his mouth
to say what he was thinking, he became sick to death, he was deathly pale, it was
too late to say anything else, not one more word passed over his lips. It was Death
who had come to him, it was all no use. Death makes its work brief. All his “Nonsenses”
did no more good and all his beautiful
“Bonjours”
and
“Bonsoirs”
had an end. It was all over with scorn and mockery and with cold-heartedness. Oh,
God, is such living a life? Would you like to live so lifelessly, so godlessly? To
be so inhuman among human beings? Could someone cry out about you or about me if we
had lived like Kienast? Could someone regret my death? Might it not be then that this
or that person could almost be delighted about my departure?