Around this time, a new advertisement bearing the invisible heading “Give us money!” was placed in the newspapers: Factory Investment Sought. The owners of several small businesses in the village had tried to collect their money and had been sent away with a promise of later payment. As a result, it was soon public knowledge that Tobler wasn’t paying his bills. Frau Tobler scarcely dared show her face any longer in the village proper, she was afraid of being insulted. The seamstress from the city sent a letter requesting payment for the dress she’d made. The requested sum was an even hundred marks, a round figure that impressed itself all too well upon a feminine memory.
“Write to her,” Frau Tobler said to the assistant. A barrel of young wine, so-called Sauser, had just been delivered. Even now there was no tightening of belts in the household, such measures were forbidden by the natural good cheer that was just now beginning to assert itself once more. Let the people in the village say and think whatever they pleased, even Doctor Specker and his wife, who had stopped visiting them three weeks ago.
Joseph wrote to the seamstress—one Frau Berta Gindroz, a Frenchwoman—requesting that she be so kind as to have a bit more patience. At the moment it was simply not possible for the account to be settled. Frau Tobler was moreover not so completely satisfied with her work as on earlier occasions: the bodice had come out too tight and pinched at the armpit. But in any case Frau Gindroz should not worry as far as the payment of her bill was concerned. It was just that this was a particularly bad moment to approach Frau Tobler’s husband in this matter, Herr Tobler being overburdened at present with business affairs and other concerns. Should the dress not first be altered? A response to this query would be appreciated. Please accept, Madame, the assurance, etc.
Frau Tobler signed this letter in the manner of a businessman signing numerous pieces of correspondence.
The entire garden was filled with leaves that had fallen there or been deposited by gusts of wind. One afternoon the assistant took it upon himself to begin gathering up this foliage, raking and heaping into piles as much as he was able. The day was cold and dark. Large indefinable clouds lay somber upon the sky. The Tobler house appeared to be shivering and yearning for the noble, merry days of summer. Throughout the region, all the trees had grown quite bare, their branches black and wet. Then the signalman from the train station showed up. He lived quite nearby, a friendly, modest man given to acts of gratitude, and now he came into the garden and helped Joseph gather up the leaves, saying that whatever was fitting in good and better days was surely no less than proper when times were hard. Herr Tobler had done him many a good turn. He had, for example, given him cigars on many an occasion, and many a fine gratuity, and so he did not see why things should go on like this—he, in any case, was one of those Bärenswilers who meant well by Engineer Tobler, who had always been so generous to him.
Soon the entire garden was cleared. “Yet another task brought to completion,” the signalman said, laughing. “That’s right, young man, there are many different sorts of occupations, and everything one performs with an honest effort brings with it a certain honor. If you would be so kind as to give me a few of Herr Tobler’s cheroots to smoke, I wouldn’t be disinclined to accept them. In weather like this, something nice to puff on can be just the thing.”
Frau Tobler sent him down half a liter of Sauser.
*
Overtures were made to the Bärenswil Joint-Stock Brewery with regard to the allocation of a number of the Advertising Clock’s fields or wings. The firm declined the offer: perhaps some other time! This was a new, humiliating disappointment and prompted Tobler to hurl the lion-shaped paperweight to the floor, where it flew into bits that were later cleared away by the assistant. At the same time, a new piece of request-for-payment artillery was being fired at the technical workroom, and while this cannonball produced no casualties, it was nonetheless vexing, an annoyance, and increased Tobler’s agitation.
In fact it was none other than Tobler’s erstwhile agent and traveling salesman, one Herr Sutter, who had come trotting up via registered mail to demand payment of his back wages and commissions pertaining to the acquisition of licenses for the Advertising Clock. Tobler would have liked best to respond to this individual by inviting him to apply his lips to his posterior, preferably in the environs of Genoa, the fool; but reason dictated that he acknowledge this new demand for payment, unpleasant as it was, and he wrote to the man: “I am unable to pay you!”
Patience! Herr Tobler was finding himself obliged to ask for patience from of all his associates, his suppliers and his fellow men, more or less as follows: Be patient, for I, Tobler, have honest and upright intentions. I was so rash as to throw all my liquid funds into my enterprises. Do not force me to extreme measures. I am organizing my obligations, I can still inherit additional sums, I am entitled to an inheritance on my mother’s side. In addition, I have placed a new advertisement, Assets Sought, in the most influential newspapers. Admittedly, my head is spinning, but, etc ….
Concerning the expected inheritance, Tobler was in negotiation with his lawyer, to whom letters and postcards were dispatched on a daily basis.
The first model Marksman’s Vending Machine had meanwhile been completed, and indeed it functioned gloriously and occasioned the gayest hopes. This apparatus, its inventor believed, would quite possibly succeed in redeeming both the Advertising Clock and the capital that had been thrown into it. One day the machinist invited Joseph to inspect the finished product, an invitation the latter was quite happy to accept, all the more so as it was a beautiful, mild autumn day. He set out on foot, strolling agreeably toward the neighboring village, a good hour’s foot journey distant. He was accompanied on the right by woods that shot straight up toward the sky, and on the left by the placid lake, making his walk along this country lane the most agreeable sort of “business trip.” When he arrived in the village, he inquired after the mechanical workshop, which he found after a great deal of searching through narrow streets that had been kneaded and built into knots, and now he stood before the Marksman’s Vending Machine, which had been elegantly adorned with decorative paints. The manufacturer of this item, demonstrating for Joseph how smoothly and noiselessly the apparatus functioned, grumbled that now it was time for Herr Tobler to provide appropriate remuneration, at least it was reasonable to expect compensation after having done—though Tobler was unwilling to admit this—the lion’s share of the work. Jumping about, giving orders and traveling did not, in fact, contribute much to the progress of such an undertaking. Progress required hands performing actual work. Yes, Joseph should let his employer know how matters appeared from the perspective of the mechanical workshop, it couldn’t hurt for him to know this.
Joseph listened in silence to all these grievances and soon thereafter set out for home.
Back at the villa, he was met by shouts informing him that a gentleman was waiting down in the office to speak with Mr. Joseph Marti.
It was the man who ran the Employment Referral Office in the city, the man to whom the assistant owed his position: an oddly disheveled-looking gentleman who, however, appeared to be possessed of the humblest and gentlest of dispositions. The two men greeted one another in a friendly, almost brotherly manner, though they were separated by a significant age difference. The as it were tousled and tattered face of the supervisor recalled to Joseph hardships he’d long since put behind him. A shabby room filled with copyists appeared in his mind’s eye, and he beheld himself sitting there at a desk, then he saw Herr Tobler walking in, saw the man in charge get up from his chair to look about the room in search of the individual who would best serve Herr Tobler’s needs. How long ago all of that was!
Joseph asked what had brought the supervisor to Bärenswil.
The older man, glancing about the office in all directions, said that above all he had come merely out of interest; he wanted to have a look at the place that, it would appear, had won Joseph’s favor. It was a sleepy day at the copyists’ offi
ce, not a single commission, and so he’d simply decided to catch a train and permit himself this modest outing. But in truth he had not come exclusively to satisfy his curiosity, he was fond of combining pleasure with utility and necessity, and so he would like to allow himself a question: why was it that to this day, despite repeated reminders, he had not yet been paid the sum that was his quite customary referral fee? Had the letters and bills he’d sent failed to arrive?
“Oh yes, they arrived,” Joseph responded, “but you see, sir, there isn’t any money.”
“No money? Not even for such a trifling sum?”
“None at all!”
With a thoughtful expression, the supervisor asked whether he might speak to Herr Tobler. Joseph replied:
“For many days now, Herr Tobler has been absolutely unavailable to speak with any person desiring to collect money from him. This is the task of his clerk, that is, myself. Won’t you please sit down for a moment, sir? You will rest for ten minutes and then depart again. Despite all the esteem I have for you, I am forced to tell you that here in the Tobler household those to whom we owe money are anything but welcome. Both Frau and Herr Tobler have given me strict orders to make short work of individuals belonging to this category, and under no circumstances to engage them in conversation, but rather to dismiss them coldly. You yourself, sir, once admonished me, when I was saying goodbye to you three and a half months ago in the copyists’ office, to prove myself a faithful, obedient and diligent employee so that I would be of use and would not be sent packing after half a day’s unsatisfactory trial. As you see, I am still here, and so it would seem I have proven my worth. I have made my peace with the peculiar conditions here, and find that I’ve adapted well to them.”
“Is your salary being paid?” the visitor inquired.
“No,” the assistant said, “and admittedly this is one of the things with which I am not fully satisfied. Often I have wanted to discuss this with Herr Tobler, but each time I am about to open my mouth to remind my superior of this matter which, as I have had occasion to perceive, is not exactly the most agreeable to him, the courage to speak deserts me, and so each time I tell myself: Put it off! And I’m still alive today, even without a salary.”
“What is your life like here? Are you fed well?”
“Excellently!”
The administrator then said, his voice filled with concern, that after all they had discussed he had no choice but to take legal action against Herr Tobler.
“Why not,” Joseph said. The supervisor reached for his threadbare hat, gave the assistant a paternal look, shook hands with him and left.
Joseph took up a piece of paper and, as he had nothing more important to occupy him, penned the following:
Bad Habits
One such habit is the need to ponder every living thing with which I am confronted. The slightest encounter arouses in me the most peculiar urge to think. Just this moment a man has left me who, on account of the memories I associate with his old, poor figure, is dear and meaningful to me. I felt I had forgotten, lost or simply misplaced something when I looked into his face. A loss immediately impressed itself upon my heart, and an old vision upon my eyes. I am possibly a somewhat high-strung person, but I am also a precise one. I feel even the most trifling losses, in certain matters I am meticulously conscientious, and only occasionally am I obliged, for better or worse, to command myself: Forget this! A single word can thrust me into the most monstrous and tempestuous confusion, and then I find myself utterly possessed by thoughts of this apparently miniscule and insignificant thing, while the present in all its glory has become incomprehensible to me. These moments constitute a bad habit. Even this is a bad habit, what I am doing right now, making memos of my thoughts. I’m going off to find Frau Tobler now. Perhaps she has some sort of household work for me.
He threw what he had written into the wastepaper basket and left the office. And indeed there was work of a household nature awaiting him: carrying the storm windows intended for winter use from the attic down to the cellar, where they were to be cleaned off and washed. He removed his jacket straightaway and began to lug the windows downstairs. Frau Tobler was astonished to witness such ardent zeal, and the washerwoman who had meanwhile begun to clean them said he appeared to be one of those fellows who could make themselves useful in all sorts of ways. She attached to this praise a moral lesson, noting in her rough voice that nowadays, with the world becoming ever more uncertain and changeful, it was almost a necessity for young people to learn to reconcile themselves to whatever might come along. In any case, it certainly did a young man no harm to be able to handle even despised, lowly things.
After the windows had been washed, they had to be carried into the rooms and hung up neatly in the window openings to which they belonged. Frau Tobler exhorted the assistant to be careful, and stood there watching, somewhat anxiously, his hanging-up motions, some of which struck her as too forceful. “How becoming it is to this woman to look a bit worried,” the window-hanger thought and felt quite pleased with himself.
This was perhaps yet another bad habit of his, that he always felt pleased, indeed happy, when he was granted the privilege of performing physical labor. Was he really so unwilling to exert his mind, the better half of a human being? Was he destined to become a wood-cutter or a coachman? Ought he to live in primeval forests, or as a sailor upon the high seas? What a shame that there were no log cabins to be built in the environs of Bärenswil.
No, he was perhaps by no means unintelligent—a deficit, by the way, which persons born healthy are unlikely to suffer. But there was something about him that favored the physical. In school, as he often recalled quite vividly, he had been a good gymnast. He loved walking through the countryside, clambering up mountains, washing dishes at the kitchen sink. He had performed this latter task at home as a boy, regaling his mother with stories as he worked. Moving his arms and legs struck him as highly enjoyable. He preferred swimming in cold water to pondering lofty things. He liked to sweat, which was possibly quite revealing. Was he destined to tote bricks about a building site? Should he be hitched to a cart? In any case, though, he was no Hercules.
Yes, he was possessed of intellect when he wished to be, but he liked to take breaks from thinking. One day he saw a man carrying sacks in the middle of the village and immediately thought that he would do the same as soon as Tobler sent him away. This was at the height of summer. And now it was late autumn and time to hang the storm windows.
At the conclusion of these labors, there was young wine to drink. Besides, night had fallen and it was time for supper. The conversation at table was animated, and everyone remained sitting there long after they had finished eating. The washerwoman’s husband, a simple factory worker, turned up. Frau Tobler invited him to join them for a glass of Sauser; he sat right down at the table and soon was singing a jolly song. His glass was refilled again and again, and the others drank a good deal as well. To bed with you, children! Frau Tobler cried after an hour. Pauline carried Dora in her arms from one person to the next so she could say good-night. The washerwoman made it clear to all present that her tongue was both witty and swift: she reeled off a whole series of village tales, love stories and tales of horror. The man resumed his singing. His wife tried to make him stop, as he was taking certain liberties in his choice of songs, but Frau Tobler said he should sing whatever he pleased, the children had gone to bed, and as for the rest of them, a word uttered in exuberance would do no harm, she herself was perfectly happy to listen to such things now and again. The wine cast its spell, placing the most fantastical rhymes upon the lips of this blackish-looking, one-eyed fellow. Everyone was overcome with uncontrollable laughter, above all Frau Tobler, who seemed to wish to “take advantage” of the opportunity, seeing as she had been, to her distress, largely deprived of social intercourse in the past few weeks. And if the people keeping her company this evening were not exactly refined, they were merry all the same. Poor folk, but people of honest sensibilities.
Besides which, she was feeling—she herself could scarcely say why—the need to be a bit exuberant for once, and so she took pleasure in filling the glasses ever anew until midnight arrived. Joseph was drunk, he was babbling and was nearly on the point of sinking under the table. The others were holding up better. Frau Tobler had indulged more in the pleasures of conversation and laughter than in the wine. But the factory worker seemed able to tolerate an tremendous quantity of drink. Joseph was just staggering upstairs on the way to his room when Tobler appeared, crossly demanding to know why it was that the veranda light had once again not been left burning for him. It was pitch black out in the garden, a person could break an arm or a leg. He saw what was going on in the living room. The woman and man from the neighborhood had risen to their feet. Shortly afterward, they said their timid good-nights and departed. Tobler asked his wife what in the world she was thinking. She could only laugh, and pointed at the clerk, who was struggling with the simple difficulty of making his way up the stairs. Tobler was tired so he didn’t say much. It had been a Sauser evening, a bit unseemly perhaps, but not a crime.
The next morning Joseph arose somewhat earlier than usual and worked with extra diligence; he was feeling pricks of conscience and dreaded seeing his master. But neither was one of his ears torn off nor were there objects flying about his head. Tobler was friendlier and more casual than ever, indeed, he even told jokes.
In the course of the day, the assistant confessed to Frau Tobler that he had been frightened. Gazing at him in surprise, as if there were something about him she couldn’t fathom, she said:
The Assistant Page 16
