Tales of the German Imagination from the Brothers Grimm to Ingeborg Bachmann (Penguin Classics) (30 page)

I can speak openly now. A year after we broke off our engagement, she married a young officer of noble lineage, but died bearing his first child, a curly-blonde-haired little daughter.

I usually stayed till six o’clock at her parents’ home, where a big group gathered every day, and then took a stroll, attended the theatre and returned home at ten o’clock, only to repeat the same ritual all over again the following day.

Early every morning, slowly descending my three flights of steps, I ran into the concierge wiping the white flagstone floor in the hallway downstairs. He greeted me and started a conversation. Every day the same. About the weather first, then how I liked my apartment, and such. Since the old man never wanted to end the conversation, I invariably asked after his children, whereupon he sighed and snarled between clenched teeth: ‘It’s the cross I have the bear! They give me much worry, sir!’ That was the end of it. Once, on a Tuesday, just to make small talk, I asked who lived next door to me. The question was answered the same way it had been posed: just like that, in passing. ‘A
seamstress, a poor thing, an ugly one …’ he muttered without looking up from the floor. That was all.

I had long since forgotten this bit of information, when I met her – it was indeed the seamstress, as I rightly surmised at the time – in the dark vestibule downstairs. It was on a Sunday morning. I had slept late and was just stepping out, while she, with a small book in her hand, was probably just coming home from church. What a pitiful creature: between her pointy shoulders, draped with a shoddy green, almost floor-length coat, a head bobbed back and forth, the most striking features of which were a long, thin nose and hollow cheeks. Her narrow, slightly parted lips revealed filthy teeth, her chin was angular and protruding. The only remarkable feature of this face were the eyes. Not that they were beautiful, but they were big and very black, albeit lustreless. So black, in fact, that her pitch-black hair looked almost grey in contrast. All I know is that the impression her appearance made on me was by no means a pleasant one. I believe she avoided my gaze. I had no time, in any case, to dwell any longer on this inconsequential encounter, since right outside the door I fell upon a friend, in whose company I spent the entire morning. I subsequently forgot altogether that I even had a neighbour, since, though we lived practically back to back, next door everything remained perfectly still night and day. And things would well have gone on that way, if not one night, by chance – or what else should I call it? – the unexpected, the never suspected happened.

Towards the end of April, my fiancée’s parents held a party which, having been discussed and prepared far in advance, came off splendidly and lasted late into the night. That evening I found Hedwig ravishing. We sat and talked a long time in the small green salon, and I listened happily as, half ironically but with a fervid, childlike naivety, she sketched the contour of our future life together, painting every little joy and sorrow in dazzling colours, anticipating our happiness as a child anticipates a Christmas tree. A pleasant sense of satisfaction infused my breast with a comforting warmth, even Hedwig said she had never seen me so happy. The same mood, moreover, was shared
by one and all; toast followed toast. And so it happened that we only reluctantly broke up the party at 3 a.m. Carriage after carriage drove up to the door. The few pedestrians soon dispersed in all directions. I had more than a half-hour’s walk ahead, and so I hastened home, all the more quickly since the April night was cold, dark and foggy. All wrapped up in my own thoughts, it didn’t take me half as long as I’d imagined before I found myself at my front door. Slowly I unlocked the door and carefully locked it again after me. I struck a match to light my way from the lobby to the foot of the stairs. It happened to be my last match and soon went out. I felt my way up the stairs, still thinking about the pleasant hours I’d spent that evening. Then I reached the top of the stairs. I put the key in the lock, turned once and slowly opened …

There
she
was standing before me. She. A dim candle burnt almost all the way down to the wick still scantly lit the room, from which the unpleasant odours of sweat and fat wafted towards me. Dressed in a filthy unbuttoned blouse and a dark petticoat, she stood there at the edge of the bed, hardly surprised, so it seemed, her unwavering glassy gaze fixed upon me.

I had obviously stumbled into her room by mistake. But I was so taken aback, so frozen in my tracks, that I did not utter a word of apology, but did not leave either. I was filled with revulsion, I know; but I stayed. I watched as she stepped over to the table, shoved aside a dish of scattered leftovers of a dubious dinner, removed the clothes from a chair and invited me to sit down. With a quiet voice, she simply said: ‘Come, sir!’

Even the sound of that voice revolted me. But I obeyed, as though following some unknown force. She spoke. I don’t know about what. She sat down and all the while remained seated on the edge of the bed. In the dark. I could only make out the pale oval of that face, and intermittently, when the dying candle flickered, those big eyes. Then I got up. I wanted to go. The latch on the door resisted my efforts. She came to my assistance. There – right next to me – she slipped and fell, and I had to pick her up. She pressed herself against my breast and I felt the proximity of her hot breath. An unpleasant sensation. I wanted to pry myself free of her grip. But her eyes stared
so intently into mine, as though their gaze wove an invisible web around me. She pulled me ever closer to her, ever closer. She pressed hot wet kisses on my lips … The candle went out.

The following morning I awakened with a heavy head, a backache and a bitter tongue. She lay asleep on the pillow beside me. Her pale, sunken face, her gaunt neck, her flat, naked bosom instilled terror in me. Slowly I sat up. The damp air weighed heavy on me. I looked around: the dirty table, the worn thin-legged chair, the wilted flower on the window-sill – everything evoked misery and atrophy. Then she stirred. As though in a dream, she placed a hand on my shoulder. I stared at that hand: the long, thick-knuckled fingers with the filthy, short, thick nails, the skin at the fingertips brown and pierced with needle holes … The sight of her filled me with revulsion. I leapt up, tore open the door and ran into my room. There I was able to breathe more easily. I also know that I slid shut the latch on my door – as far as it would go.

One day followed the next in much the same way as before. Once, maybe a week later, when I had already lain down to sleep, I accidentally hit my elbow against the wall. Realizing that this unintentional knock was immediately answered, I remained perfectly still. Then I fell asleep. In my half-slumber, it seemed to me as if my door were being opened. The next moment I felt a body pressing up against me. It was her beside me. She spent the night in my arms. Many times I wanted to throw her out. But she peered at me with those big eyes, and the words withered on my lips. How awful it was to feel the warm limbs of this creature next to mine, this ugly, prematurely aged girl; and yet I simply could not find the strength to …

Sometimes I met her on the staircase. She walked past me, as she had the first time – as if we did not know each other. Very often she came to me. Quietly, without a word, she entered and kept me riveted with her look. I was unable to say no.

Finally, I decided to put an end to this business. It seemed to me to be a crime against my bride to share my bed with this woman who clung to me with such desperate insistence, and who could not even – lay claim to the licence of love!

I returned home much earlier than usual and immediately locked my door. At the stroke of nine, she came. Since she found the door locked, she went away again; she might have supposed I was out. But I was careless. I shoved the heavy desk chair somewhat precipitously back against the wall. This she surely noticed. The next moment there was a knock at the door. I remained silent. Again. Then frantically and incessantly, the knocking continued. Now I heard her sobbing – a long, long time … She must have spent half the night at my door. But I held firm; I felt that this perseverance had finally broken the spell.

The next day I met her on the staircase. She moved very slowly. When I came up close, she opened her eyes. I panicked: what a frightful glint and menace in that look … I laughed at myself. Fool! To think that I could be afraid of such a girl! And I peered after her as she clumsily tackled the stone steps, hobbling down …

That afternoon, my boss needed me, so I had to skip my customary visit at Hedwig’s. That evening, when I returned to my room, I found a note from the father of my bride which astonished me no end. It read:

… under the given circumstances, you will well understand that, much to my regret, I am obliged to annul your engagement with my daughter. I thought to entrust Hedwig to a man who had no other commitments. To spare my child any such discoveries is a father’s duty. You will, honoured sir, well understand my path of action, as I too am convinced that you yourself would in time have informed me of the way things stand. I remain, sincerely yours, …

It is difficult to describe how I felt. I loved Hedwig. I had already made myself at home in the future which she had so charmingly painted for me. I could not imagine my future without her. I know that I was at first overcome by a heavy pain, which made tears come to my eyes, before I could even bring myself to surmise the cause of this curious rejection. For it was definitely curious, of this there could be no doubt. I knew
Hedwig’s father, who was himself the very epitome of conscientiousness and fairness, and I knew that only a momentous occurrence could have led him to take such a course of action. For he respected me and was too fair-minded knowingly to do me wrong. I did not sleep the entire night. A thousand thoughts shot through my mind. Finally, towards morning, I was so tired that I was overcome by sleep. Upon waking, I noticed that I had forgotten to lock my door. In the meantime, she had not come to me. I heaved a sigh of relief.

I rushed to get dressed and, excusing my absence for a few hours at the office, hastened to the home of my bride. I found the door locked and when, upon my repeated ringing, no one appeared, I thought that they must have gone out. The concierge could easily have been occupied in the yard, where he could not hear the sound of the bell. I decided to come by at the usual time that afternoon. And so I did. The concierge opened the door, was surprised to see me and said that I must surely know that the family had gone on a trip. I fell into a panic, but acted as if everything were in order and merely asked to speak to Franz, the old butler. He then told me in detail how everyone, but everyone, had gone away, after yesterday afternoon when a curious scene had taken place.

‘I stood,’ so he said, ‘in the hallway, polishing the silverware, just as a strange woman made her miserable entry and begged me to take her to Miss Hedwig. Naturally, I did not accede to her request – I’ve got to know ’em before I let ’em in …’ I nodded impatiently. A thought came to mind … ‘Well to cut a long story short,’ the chatty old gent continued, ‘she made such a scene and screamed and yelled at my refusal to accede to her request, that my honoured master came out. She pleaded with him to hear her out and swore she had important news. He took her into his office. She stayed in there for a whole hour. A whole hour, can you imagine, sir! Then she came out and kissed my master’s hand …’

‘What did she look like?’ I interrupted him.

‘Pale, haggard, ugly.’

‘Tall?’

‘Quite tall.’

‘Eyes?’

‘Black, like her hair.’ The old gent kept babbling on. I knew enough. Every word of that terrible letter suddenly became all too clear to me; a bitter rage welled up in me. I left the servant abruptly and went bounding down the front steps. I ran through the streets all the way home. At my front door there were a few people milling about. Men and women. They spoke heatedly and quietly with one another. I gruffly shoved them aside. Then, three steps at a time, I bounded up the steps, without taking a single breath. I had to get to her, to tell her … I had no idea what I would say, but I felt that the right words would come to me at the right time …

On the staircase I passed men. I took no notice of them. Once upstairs I tore open the door. I was struck by a potent odour of carbolic acid. A curse curdled on my lips. There she lay on the grey linen of her bed dressed in nothing but a nightshirt. Her head was twisted back, the eyes shut. Her hand hung limp. I came closer. I did not dare touch her. With gaping lips and bloodshot eyelids she looked altogether like she’d drowned. I shuddered. I was alone in the room. The setting sun cast a cold light on the filthy table – on the edge of the bed … I bent down to that woman. Yes, she was dead. The colour of her face was bluish. She emanated a foul odour. And I was overcome by revulsion …

1943

Georg Kaiser

The ambitious young reporter Flanagan is seated before his mighty boss, the newspaper magnate Warren. He complains of the monotony of his work, that reporting no longer satisfies him. Always the same catastrophes: fires, earthquakes, scandals – political and private. Always the same sensations. Warren asks Flanagan: what subjects would he prefer? Flanagan would like for once in his life to depict the opposite of all that – to be sent on an assignment to a place where nothing happens. Where time consists of nothing but silence. Just then the captain of a schooner, a relative of Warren’s, drops in at the office to say goodbye. And Warren suggests to Flanagan that he join the captain on his slow sailing ship on which nothing ever happens. Nothing but waves – more wind, less wind. Flanagan accepts and boards the vessel, hoping to experience nothing.

But he experiences the greatest adventure of his life. For a long time the schooner sails quietly. Nothing happens. It really appears as if the lowest level of experience has been reached, a coefficient close to absolute zero. Then one day a storm breaks and rages out of control, wreaking havoc with the helm. The ship is a toy ball, a plaything of the crashing waves. Finally the storm settles. But the captain does not recognize these quiet waters. The tempest has driven his vessel far off-course. Now in any case the helm needs fixing and other damages must be attended to. The work takes time.