The Assistant

by Robert Walser

  Her gaiety had returned.

  “As for you, Joseph,” she continued, gazing at the assistant with her enormous eyes, “I know perfectly well how seriously you go about your work. And it would be wrong to expect all solutions and all splendid accomplishments to come all at once from a single man. It’s just that you’re a bit hard on people sometimes, really you are.”

  “You are humiliating me, but I deserve it,” Joseph said.

  Both of them laughed.

  “You are a peculiar person,” Frau Tobler remarked, bringing their conversation to a close. She got up. Joseph ran after her to ask if she would be so kind as to identify the clothes Herr Tobler had just given him and have them brought to his room, he wanted to try them on this very day. She agreed, saying that she would take the garments in question out of the wardrobe at once.

  Approximately one hour later, he watered the garden. He found it so agreeable to watch the thin, silvery stream of water slice through the air and to hear the water strike the leaves of the trees. The excavators soon tossed aside their shovels and pickaxes and called it a day. “A peculiar person,” the one occupying himself with the hose mused, and almost fell into a gloomy frame of mind: “Why peculiar?’

  Doctor Specker and his wife came to call that evening, and Tobler turned up as well, huffily and against his will. He had just been settling down for a cozy evening at the Sailing Ship when he had been reached by telephone and informed of the visitors who had arrived up at the villa.

  “Do they have to come again so soon?” he had said to his wife on the telephone, but he couldn’t very well send them packing, and so he sacrificed the nice game of Jass he could have had at the inn to instead play cards at home, which to his mind was a bit “infantile.” Indeed, the sort of Jass played by true devotees of the game was far more serious and masculine in nature—and above all much quieter; Tobler had come to all but hate the game’s chatty, innocent, domestic form.

  Joseph excused himself, saying he had a headache and wanted to go out for a little walk in the fresh air. “So he is shirking his duty while I am forced to stay right here,” Tobler’s face appeared to be saying when he heard Joseph’s alibi.

  Joseph fled “into nature.” The moonlight was delicately, expansively illuminating the whole region. From somewhere or other came the sound of lapping water. He walked up the mountainside between the meadows he knew so well. The large stones beside the path shone white beneath the moon. The thickets of trees were full of a whispering, sighing susurration. Everything had been dipped in a fragrant, wistful haze. From the nearby forest he heard the hooting of owls. A few isolated houses, a few tentative sounds, and suddenly a light here or there, one in motion, grasped in the hand of some late wanderer, or else a steady one, a lamp behind a half-curtained window. What stillness there was in the dark, what vastness in the invisible, what distance! Joseph surrendered himself entirely to his sensations.

  Suddenly he thought again of the “peculiar person” he was. What about him was so terribly peculiar? Well, strolling around alone at night—this, to be sure, was curious enough, this sort of pleasure might well be dubbed “peculiar.” But what else? Was that all? No, the main thing was his life, his entire life, the life he had been leading until now and the future life one might assume was in store for him—this is what was peculiar, and Frau Tobler was quite right to remark …

  These women, how well they understood how to read the hearts and characters of others. What a talent to be able to send so right and fitting an utterance directly into the middle of one’s astonished soul. A peculiar fellow. But she’d spoken in jest, hadn’t she?

  Grieving over so very many things, he went home.

  The Bärenswilers or Bärensweilers are a good-natured but at the same time somewhat treacherous race—they might best be described as slyboots or tricksters. They are all more or less shifty and crafty, and every last one of them—the one more, the other less—has something secretive or hidden about him, and for this reason they all tend to look a bit artful and wily. They are honest and moral and not without pride; for centuries they have enjoyed wholesome civil and political liberties. But they are wont to combine this honesty with worldly ways and a certain sense of cunning, and they like to give the impression of being sharp as tacks. They are all a little ashamed of their hearty, natural straightforwardness, and each one of them would rather be seen as a “scoundrelly dog” than as a blockhead and donkey who is easily duped. Duping a Bärenswiler is no easy matter—anyone who wishes to attempt such a feat should be strenuously forewarned. They are good-hearted when treated with respect, and have a good dose of honor in them, since for centuries they have enjoyed … etc. But they are ashamed of their own kindness, as they are of nearly every expression of sentiment. They laugh using their back teeth where other people and nations laugh only with their lips, they make conversation more with their pricked-up ears than with their unabashed mouths, they are lovers of silence, but sometimes they will set about boasting like proper sailors, as if all of them had been born with mouths destined for use in public houses. Later they will hold their tongues for four weeks without pause. In general, they know themselves quite well, they’re able to calculate where their strengths and where their failings lie, and they are always more likely to put their flaws on display than their positive qualities, so as not to let anyone know just how capable they are. This ruse proves much to their advantage in business affairs. In the surrounding region, they have a reputation for being uncouth devils, and this is not entirely without cause, but it is always only a few among them who are disagreeable boors, and thanks to these few exceptions the Bärenswilers have to put up with many an impudent and unjust epithet. They have a great deal of imagination, coupled with the desire to put it to use; those among them who are lacking in taste therefore tend to do more boasting than is right and proper, for which they are held in ill repute elsewhere in the land. But above all else, Herr Tobler, they are down-to-earth and sober, a race apparently made to conduct business in a modest but safe manner and reap profits accordingly. The homes they live in are as clean as they are, the streets they build are a bit bumpy, just like them, and the electric lanterns that light up the streets of their village at night are practical, once more just exactly like them. And this is the sort of people among whom Herr Tobler had to come to live.

  Engineer Tobler!

  Time made an invisible leap forward. Even in the region around Bärenswil, the seasons don’t stand still, but rather they naturally had to do just what they were compelled to in other places as well: they were changing, in spite of Herr Tobler, who might well have wished to see time stop in its tracks. A man like him, whose business was going poorly, was unconsciously the enemy of all that was moving calmly and steadily forward. A day or a week is always either too short or too long to suit such a person—too short because the approaching crisis is already in view, and too long because the sight of the sluggish course his own enterprises are taking can only fill him with tedium. When time appeared to be rapidly advancing, Tobler would murmur that it had been days since he’d been able to sit down to any real work, and when it appeared to be taking slow, unhurried steps, he wished he could be transported far off into a future decade so as not to have to look any longer at all these things surrounding him.

  Autumn was arriving, everything appeared to be sitting down, somewhere something was coming to a standstill, nature seemed at times to be rubbing its eyes. The breezes were blowing differently, at least it often seemed that way, shadows slipped past the windows, and the sun became a different sun. When it was warm out, a few people, true Bärenswilers, would say: just look how warm it is still. They were grateful for the mild weather, as just a day before, standing at the threshold, one would have had to say: Good heavens, it’s starting to rumble!

  Now and again the sky furrowed its beautiful, pure brow, or even went so far as to knit it together in folds and veils of grief. Thereupon the entire hill and lake region would be wrapped in gray
damp cloths. Rain fell heavily upon the trees, which didn’t keep one from running down to the post office if one happened to be a clerk in the House of Tobler. Herr Martin Grünen appeared similarly unaffected by the beautiful, gentle change of seasons, otherwise he would hardly have been able to write that none of the reasons Tobler had specified in explanation of his refusal to pay were of any concern to him and that he insisted on the immediate termination of the loan in question.

  And when the beautiful weather then returned, how happy it could make you! There were above all three colors to be observed in nature: a white, a blue and a gold, fog, blue sky, and sunshine, three quite, quite refined, even elegant colors. You could go on taking meals out in the garden, you stood there leaning up against the trellis and pondering whether you might ever have seen such a sight before, perhaps in your youth. The warmth and colors had melted into one. Yes, you tell yourself, colors like this produce warmth! The region appeared to be smiling, the sky seemed to have been made happy by its own appearance, it appeared to be the scent and the substance and the dear meaning of this smiling of land and lake. How all these things could just lie there, radiant and still. If you gazed out over the surface of the lake, you felt—and you didn’t even have to be an assistant for this—as if you were being addressed with friendly, agreeable words. If you gazed into the yellow realm of the trees, a tender melancholy stirred in your breast. If you looked at the house, you felt compelled to laugh, although despotic Pauline was just brushing out rugs at the kitchen window. The world seemed to be full of music. Above the crowns of the trees, the dazzling-gauzy-white outlines of the Alps appeared like notes of music fading into the distance. Looking at all these things, you were suddenly struck by how unreal it all looked. Then another time things were different. Other vistas, other feelings! The region itself appeared to be sentient and to be experiencing different feelings. And what was being felt vanished each time in the all-encompassing blue. Yes, everything had assumed a blue-tinged shade and hue. And then this briskness, this rustling from the trees, which always contained a faint, cool motion. Could a person work in such surroundings, prove himself useful? Yes, by stringing up the clothesline and helping the washerwoman carry a basket of wet laundry up from the cellar into the golden-blue light of the earth. Such activity was perfectly fitting on such a beautiful and, as it were, bright-burnished day whose every corner was flashing with colors and notes. And there was a whole series of these days on which you could only get out of bed, lean out the window and say several times in a row: how splendid!

  Yes, the summer land had become an autumn land.

  But the marching pace of Tobler’s enterprises had taken no new turn—there was no about-face, not a step out of line. Worry marched in lock-step with disappointment, advancing like two exhausted but disciplined soldiers, not permitting themselves the slightest deviation. On the whole, even taking into account the various failures and futilities, they made up a most orderly procession marching slowly but steadily forward, eyes fixed on what lay ahead.

  Tobler was now taking more and more business trips, as if the sight of his charming home were painful to him, a reproach. He was in possession of a rail pass permitting unlimited travel for a full quarter of a year, which after all, since he had made the investment, must be put to use. What would have been the common sense in it otherwise? Travel in and of itself appeared to give him pleasure. He was just the man for it. Waiting for his train at the Sailing Ship, then perhaps missing the train the first time around, only to board the very next one, a weighty briefcase clamped beneath his arm, and then to ride off over hill and dale, striking up a conversation with his fellow travelers, presenting one or the other of them with a cigar or a good cheroot, and at last getting out of the train in some unfamiliar region, spending time among gay, mirth-loving people, conducting negotiations until deep into the night in first-class restaurants, etc.: this was just the thing for Tobler, it suited both him and his character, kept unworthy thoughts from entering his head, and helped him feel like himself again for a little while—in his suit that fit him so admirably.

  Why should he stay home when he had his clerk, whom he was obliged to “maintain.” It would have been ridiculous. If he took up sedentary ways, it would utterly destroy his last remaining scrap of enterprising spirit. From there, it wouldn’t take much before he’d have to “shut up shop” altogether. And that would be the last straw: sitting at home surrounded by sneering Bärenswil faces. No, he’d rather put a bullet in his head, that would be preferable.

  And so he kept traveling.

  At home, meanwhile, concern over the necessities of everyday life had begun to rap lightly at the windowpanes, to pluck at a curtain so as to gaze cozily into the Tobler family’s interior, and to stand in the doorway to evoke for anyone who happened past a sense of uncertainty. This concern was taking a bit more interest now than it had in the summer. It was just standing there for the time being, inspecting the terrain, without otherwise attracting notice. If its presence was sensed now and again, that was enough; it displayed courtesy and caution. A threshold, a windowsill, a snug little corner of the roof or under the dining table—such places seemed to satisfy it. In no way did it assert its importance, though, to be sure, it did from time to time touch the heart of Frau Tobler with its cold breath, causing her to spin around in broad daylight as if there were someone standing behind her, as if she meant to ask: “Who’s that standing there?”

  The small sums of money that the technical enterprises brought in were immediately—as per her husband’s instructions—appropriated by the lady of the house. Bread, milk and meat had to be paid for on a daily basis. The family went on living and eating just as they always had, in no way did they economize on any of these things. Better not to be alive at all than to live poorly. Pauline’s salary was paid out to her regularly; the assistant, on the other hand, was expected to have sufficient tact and understanding to grasp the situation without a word and act accordingly. Joseph was a man, and Pauline a capricious child of the lower classes. A man could be called on to make sacrifices where a working-class girl could not—the clerk grasped this distinction.

  The boys were going to school again, a great relief for their mother, who was now able to go out on the veranda to enjoy the mild autumn sunshine and recline in a gently rocking chair. Lying there like that, she would sometimes be visited by a dream that in the loveliest hues invited her to bask in life as a fine lady, one of the noblest and best—a charming illusion in which she couldn’t help luxuriate for a brief quarter of an hour, though not without a sense of profound melancholy.

  One day she called the assistant out to the veranda, she wanted to ask him something. This was shortly after lunch, Tobler was off on some journey, and the two little girls were playing in the living room.

  What beautiful weather they were having yet again, Joseph remarked as he stepped outside. The woman nodded, but said there was something quite different on her mind.

  “What is it?”

  Well, various things. Above all, she had been constantly preoccupied these last few days, wondering whether it wouldn’t be far more sensible simply to sell the house at once, just as it was, and move away voluntarily—the humiliation of having to leave under duress, she felt, was slowly approaching. All her husband’s enterprises would come to nothing, this she now felt she knew for certain.

  “Why now?”

  She made a dismissive gesture and asked Joseph to give her his candid opinion of the Advertising Clock.

  “I am firmly convinced,” he replied, “that it’s on the right track. We just have to be patient a short while longer. Establishing relationships with further capitalists—”

  Oh! she said passionately, he should hold his tongue! She could tell perfectly well just by looking at him that he was speaking in bad faith, telling her things he didn’t believe himself. That wasn’t particularly nice. What possibly could make him consider her incapable of withstanding the full force of the truth? If he insist
ed on lying, then he was a faithless and disloyal employee, and there was no longer any point in retaining him. She had asked to hear his opinion of the matter in question, and now she was ordering him to speak his mind openly. Above all, to begin with, she wished to learn whether her husband’s clerk was capable of independent thought. All he had to do was sit there and provide answers to her questions, assuming that as a man he had sufficient honor to possess his own opinion.

  Joseph was silent.

  What was she to think of this behavior, she wondered aloud. She believed she was still within her rights if she permitted herself to give him an order. Had his mouth tumbled down to the soles of his shoes? There was certainly plenty of room, given how many holes there were. Why such pride when the honor he put on public display was so paltry? Tobler’s clothes suited him extremely well. Yes, they did. And now, she said, he should go away, she didn’t care where he went, just so it was out of her sight.

  In fact, Joseph had already left. He walked around the perimeter of the house, spoke a few words to Leo, the dog, then went into the office and sat down at his desk. He almost forgot to light himself a cheroot, but soon he recalled the pleasure to be had in this way and held a match to one of these ever-available combustibles. Feeling strangely comforted, he began to work.

  A short while later, Frau Tobler appeared at the office door and said calmly:

  “Your conduct provoked me, Marti, but you were right. Forget what just happened. Come down for coffee soon.”

  Shutting the door quietly behind her, she departed. The clerk was trembling violently. It was impossible for him to hold the pen in his hand. Life itself was dancing before his eyes. Windows, tables and chairs seemed to become living creatures. He put on his hat and went swimming. “Just a quick dip before coffee hour,” he thought. And this was the woman he had wanted to scold on account of Silvi—what foolishness!