The Assistant

by Robert Walser

  Yes, it was cool and dark all around the slowly gliding boat. The lake was perfectly calm. The silence and peacefulness joined with human perceptions and the impenetrable blackness of the night. From the shore came flashes of scattered lights and a few sounds, among them a man’s clarion voice, and now from the opposite bank the warm notes of an accordion could be heard. This music sent its notes twisting and entwining, a flowery or ivy-like thing, about the dark fragrant body of the lake’s summer night silence. Everything appeared to have partaken of a strange contentment, gratification and meaning. Depth affixed itself to the unfathomable wetness. The woman dangled her hand in the water, she was saying something, but she seemed to be speaking her words into the water. How it bore them along, this beautiful deep water. Once another boat, steered by a man sitting alone in it, passed close by the Tobler vessel. Frau Tobler gave a faint cry of surprise, indeed almost of terror. No one had seen the other boat coming, it appeared to have thrust itself suddenly next to them from the far unknown distance, or else from out of the depths. The sky was completely covered with stars. How the stars lifted them up and bore them and spun them around. The woman said she was beginning to feel almost chilly, and she threw a shawl she had brought with her about her shoulders. To Joseph it appeared, as he gazed at her, as if she were smiling there in the darkness, but he wouldn’t have been able to discern this precisely. “Where is our Leo,” she asked. “There he is, there!” cried Walter, the boy. “He’s swimming after us!”

  Rise up and ascend, O depths! Yes, there they are—rising from the surface of the water, creating a new enormous lake out of the space between sky and lake. The depths have no shape, and there is no eye that can see what they are depicting. They are singing as well, but in notes no ear can catch. They reach out their long moist hands, but there is no hand able to grasp them. They rear up on either side of the nocturnal boat, but no knowledge in any way present knows this. No eye is looking into the eye of the depths. The water disappears, the glassy abyss opens up, and the boat now appears to be drifting along, peaceful and melodious and safe, beneath the surface of the water.

  It must be admitted that Joseph has surrendered himself somewhat too completely to these flights of fancy. He hardly notices that their journey has come to an end when they strike land, or rather, a fat pole sticking out of the water close to the embankment where they had planned to disembark. Tobler, standing right next to them, shouts to his underling that he ought to pay more attention. He couldn’t imagine, Tobler went on, in what part of the world Joseph had learned how to row and steer. But in fact no harm’s been done, and all emerge from the boat unscathed. The rest of the night was spent in a charming beer garden filled with people, where Tobler came across some acquaintances, a railway conductor accompanied by his wife, and the two of them were soon being liberally engaged in conversation. The small, merry official’s wife talked about her chickens and eggs and the brisk business she was doing with these two profitable articles. There was a great deal of laughter. Joseph was introduced to the others by Tobler in his capacity as “my employee.” A young French girl who worked as a salesclerk in a department store scurried past the gathering. “Une jolie petite française,” the conductor’s wife said, evidently overjoyed at having an occasion to recite a few French words she knew by heart. This is always the case in Germanic lands, people love to be able to show that they understand French.

  “Frau Tobler,” Joseph thought, “knows no French at all, the poor thing!”

  Later they all went home.

  When Joseph had returned to his room and lit a candle, he went to the window half undressed instead of going straight to bed and, standing there, gave voice to this soliloquy: “What is it that I am accomplishing? I can, if I like, lie down upon this bed at once without anyone disturbing me, and fall into a most healthy and probably deep slumber. At the beer garden they give me beer to drink. I can go for a boat ride with women and children, I have plenty to eat. The air up here is splendid, and as for the way I am treated, I would be a liar if I were to find fault with it. Sunlight and air and healthy living. But what is it I am giving in return for these things? Is it something real, something of substance, that I am able to offer? Am I intelligent, and am I truly offering up the full measure of my intelligence? What services have I provided Herr Tobler to date? With all due consideration, I am firmly convinced that my lord and master hasn’t yet derived much benefit from me. Could I be lacking initiative, enthusiasm, flair? This is possible, for I came into this world equipped with an oddly generous portion of peace of mind. But does this do any harm? Of course it does, for Tobler’s enterprises require the most passionate engagement, and equanimity can sometimes resemble the driest indifference. The fate of the Advertising Clock, for example—has it truly taken hold of all the fibers of my being? Am I consumed by it? I must confess that my mind’s often occupied with quite different things. That, however, my good man, is treason. It is time to dive stalwartly headfirst into the affairs of others; after all, you are eating other people’s bread, you go boating on the lake with other people’s wives and children, lie upon other people’s cushions and beds and drink other people’s red wine. Keep your head up, and above all else, keep your nose clean. What I mean is, we aren’t here in the Tobler household solely for the purpose of enjoying life. It is an honor to roll up one’s sleeves. So get a move on!”

  Joseph had meanwhile finished undressing; he put out the candle and threw himself on the bed. But for quite some time he continued to be plagued by reproaches for “his utter lack of wits.”

  In his dream, he found himself suddenly in the living room of Frau Wirsich. He knew where he was, and yet wasn’t quite certain of it, the room was rather bright, but it appeared to him to be full of sea water. Had the Wirsichs become fish? To his astonishment he saw he was smoking a pipe, it was Tobler’s pipe, the one he was so fond of. Tobler, too, seemed to be nearby, his metallic, masculine voice could be heard, the perfect voice for a boss. This voice seemed to be framing the living room or embracing it. Then the door flew open and Wirsich appeared, his face even paler than usual, and sat down in a corner of the room, which was ceaselessly quaking as a result of that voice surrounding it. That’s right, the living room was quaking, it was afraid, even the windowpanes were trembling. And how bright it remained all this while. But this light was not daylight, it was not moonlight either, but rather a watery, glassy light. After all, they were underwater. Frau Wirsich was bending over some sort of needlework, but all at once the work in her lap dissolved into something glittering-sharp, and Joseph remarked: “Just look, tears!” What had made him say that? At just this moment, Tobler’s voice crashed and thundered like a storm raging around this beggarly domicile. But the old woman just smiled, and when one observed this smile more closely, it was Leo, the dog that was smiling, still wet from the swim he’d just taken. The terrifying voice gradually gave way to a rustling sound—the way leaves, say, are in the habit of whispering and rustling in the warm quiet wind of a midsummer noon. Then Frau Tobler appeared wearing a dress of coal-black silk, there was no guessing why she was dressed in this manner. Slowly she approached Frau Wirsich with the noble bearing of a philanthropist, but suddenly her feelings seemed to have taken another turn, for she threw her arms about the woman’s neck and kissed her. Tobler’s voice growled something in response, but the words themselves were indistinguishable. No doubt, Joseph thought, he found this outpouring of his wife’s emotions gratuitous. All at once the Wirsich lodgings were transformed into the shop run by that unattractively coiffed and painted cigar lady where he had once sat in a chair each day to hear her stories. This time, too, she was telling a story, a long monotonous sad tale, and curiously, although the story was long, it took up scarcely a moment. Am I only dreaming this, or am I really experiencing it, thought Joseph, and what does the cigar lady have to do with Frau Wirsich? Then a magnificently constructed, curvilinear golden boat sailed into the shop, the woman got in, and off she went, far far away, u
ntil she vanished in a black, glaring, acrid stretch of sky, but a tiny dot of her remained suspended high in the air. Once more the dream made a leap, a leap down into the Tobler workroom, there Joseph saw himself sitting in his shirtsleeves writing at his desk, and everything was looking at him questioningly, with a penetrating, inquiring look. What this everything was that was observing him he was unable to see clearly, but it was quite simply everything—it was, it seemed, the entire living world. Everywhere there were eyes that took a malevolent pleasure in his peculiar nakedness. The office was completely green with malicious joy, a piercing green. He tried to get up to escape from this locus of shame, but he was stuck fast in it; his heart filled with horror—and he awoke.

  Feeling an oppressive thirst, he got up and drank a glass of water. Then he went over to the window, breathing and listening to the out-of-doors, everything was perfectly still: pale moonlight was bewitching and bewhispering the landscape. And it was so very warm. The small old working-class houses at the foot of the hill appeared to be sleeping in their shapes. Not a single speck of human light or lamplight anywhere! The surface of the lake was enveloped in haze and could not be seen. The tremulous cry of a bird briefly interrupted the nocturnal silence. Such moonlight, might it not serve as an allegory for sleep? What a silence this was. Joseph could not recall ever before having beheld such a thing. He almost fell asleep right there at the open window.

  The next morning he was late for work.

  Tobler grumbled his displeasure.

  Joseph had the impertinence to reply that a few minutes one way or the other made little difference. This remark was a smashing success! For one thing, Joseph was treated to the sight of a livid face, and for another he was reprimanded as follows:

  “It is your duty to appear at work punctually. My home and my establishment are not a chicken coop. Get yourself an alarm clock if you can’t wake up. Besides which, are you willing or aren’t you? If you are not prepared to put in an honest effort, let’s put an end to things right now. The city is full of people who would be delighted to have such a position. You just have to take the train and go there. Nowadays you can scoop them up on the sidewalk. From you, on the other hand, I expect punctuality, or else—I don’t even want to say it.”

  Joseph quite sensibly said nothing.

  Half an hour later, Herr Tobler was comporting himself as the most benevolent master and most amicable of men. He even, overwhelmed by kind-heartedness, started addressing his assistant more informally, calling him Marti. Up to now it had always been Herr Marti.

  In fact, the grounds for this amicability lay elsewhere. They were rooted in the notion of patriotism. The next day, you see, would be the first of August, and on this day fell the yearly jubilee celebrated throughout the country in honor of the magnanimous, brave deeds performed by the nation’s forefathers.

  Joseph had to run down to the village to purchase lamps, lanterns, little pennants and flags, as well as candles and combustibles to be used in firework displays. In addition, he was to commission, as swiftly as possible, a wooden frame two meters in height and length—oddly enough, it was the village bookbinder he was to entrust with this task, as he was skilled in work of this sort—along with two pieces of bunting, one bright red and one white. The cloth was to be stretched over the wooden frame, and the result would represent the nation’s emblem, namely a large red square with a white cross in the middle, and all of this was to be set up that very night before the façade of the Tobler villa. Behind the frame and the image, they would place burning lamps so that the light would shimmer through the cloth and everyone off in the far and farthest distance would be able to see their two national colors illuminated.

  An hour and a half later, all the requisite items were assembled. People suddenly began arriving to help decorate the house, people who were all at once present, and then the work began of affixing little flags everywhere and mounting lamps on the sills and niches, on ledges and windows and lattices. Even in the bushes and sturdier plants in the garden, incandescent devices were laid and hung and perched and clamped, so that nowhere on the entire Tobler property did a single spot remain that had not been secretly mined and prepared for the approaching fireworks. How happy Tobler looked. He was in his element. No one, it appeared, was better suited than he to putting on parties in high style. He kept coming out of the house to arrange something here or there or to twist a wire with the nippers, to rotate an electrical lamp hanging askew till it was straight, or to merely observe the work in progress. He appeared to have forgotten his Advertising Clock or at least put it temporarily aside. Naturally all these proceedings had a joyous, ceremonial and mysterious aspect for the children, who could not get their fill of marveling and asking questions and wondering what the significance was of all these things. Joseph was kept so busy with preparations for the holiday that he had no time left to reflect on whether the services he was providing Tobler were indeed services in the truest sense. Frau Tobler seemed to be smiling all day long, and as for the weather—

  Speaking of this weather, Tobler remarked that if it continued to be so utterly glorious, they might as well plan something truly out of the ordinary. Given such an opportunity, there was no need to spare the little bit of expense this would necessarily entail. After all, this was a celebration in honor of their native land, and a man and individual must be in a sorry state indeed if no shred of patriotism was to be found in him. And certainly they were by no means overstepping the bounds of propriety, there was no need to exaggerate. But a person who no longer had an appreciation for things of this sort, one who spent his life shackled to his work and his cashbox, really did not deserve to have such a beautiful homeland, he could depart for America or Australia at any moment and find that a matter of complete and utter indifference. As for the rest, it was surely also a matter of taste. He, Tobler, just happened to like things this way, and that was that.

  A large beautiful flag was fluttering at the top of Joseph’s tower. Depending on how the wind was blowing, it would execute a bold proud arc with its light body, or else would double over on itself, abashed and weary, or curl and wave flirtatiously about its pole, whereby it appeared to be basking and admiring itself and its own graceful motions. And then all at once it would be blown high and smooth and wide, resembling a victorious warrior princess—a strong protectress—only to collapse again little by little, touchingly, caressingly. This splendid blue in the sky.

  Getting much work done in the office appeared all but impossible. The mail (how surprising it was that there was mail delivery at all) brought a fairly steep bill related to the only quite recently executed construction of the tower’s copper roof, the very same roof upon which such a pretty flag had been placed. The steep amount contained in this bill was so clearly expressed in the furrows on Tobler’s brow, expressed with almost mathematical precision, that one might have been asked to read the exact figure presented there. Viewed as a contribution to the patriotic celebration, this item was anything but edifying.

  “Let him wait,” Tobler said, throwing the invoice right next to Joseph’s thinking and corresponding head, which was bent down low to his desktop. Joseph replied through his nose with a single word: “Naturally!” as if he’d been in this business for long years already and was more than well acquainted with the circumstances, habits, torments, joys and hopes of his employer. Moreover, it seemed only appropriate on such a day to speak and act in a good-natured manner. With the weather so fine—

  “What a hurry people are always in when it’s a matter of presenting their bills,” Tobler remarked. He was just busying himself at the drawing-board, working on the sketch for the “Deep Drilling Machine.”

  “If the Advertising Clock doesn’t work out, then at least the drill will,” he murmured in Joseph’s direction, and from the correspondence desk an additional “Naturally!” rang out in answer.

  “And in the very worst case, I still have the ‘Marksman’s Vending Machine,’ that’ll save the day,” sp
oke the drawing-board, whereupon the commerce department replied:

  “Of course!”

  “Do I really believe these things I am saying?” Joseph wondered.

  “And let us not forget the patented invalid chair,” Tobler cried.

  “Aha!” the assistant responded.

  Tobler asked Joseph whether in fact he had a more or less clear notion of what these inventions entailed.

  “Well,” the amanuensis thought it permissible to say.

  Had he written the letter to the national patent office?

  “No, not yet.” Joseph hadn’t yet found the time for this today.

  “So write it already, devil take it!”

  When Joseph presented the document for his employer’s signature, it turned out that the letter he had penned was incorrect, it got torn up and had to be written all over again. Nevertheless, he enjoyed the afternoon coffee break a great deal. What’s more, he received a letter from his Frau Weiss in the city in response to his last communication. She wrote that he could take his time with the repayment of the debt he owed her, there was no great hurry. As for the rest, her letter was rather conventional, boring even. But had he been expecting anything different? Not at all. He had never, thank goodness, considered this woman particularly clever.