Three hours later the guard called him. He was “done.” He took his leave of all of them. Warmly he pressed the hand of the poor milkman, who had another six weeks to serve. He was given his papers back and was free to go out onto the street. His limbs were cold and stiff, his head was still buzzing and ringing and shooting from his dream. An hour later he was once more surrounded by workaday Toblerian projects. The Advertising Clock and Marksman’s Vending Machine were beckoning to him in annoyance but also imploringly, and once more Joseph did some writing at his desk.
“Well, you’ve certainly allowed yourself a nice vacation,” the engineer said, “two whole days do not go unnoticed in a business like mine. So now I’ll expect you to work twice as hard. I hope my words are making an impression on you. Naturally the purpose of my having an assistant is not to send him off to serve prison terms every week. No one can demand that I pay out a sal—”
He had been about to say “salary,” but stopped in mid-breath, looking thoughtful. Joseph did not think it necessary to say anything at all in reply.
The invalid chair was now finished. An adorable little model stood upon Tobler’s drafting table, and was constantly being admired from every angle while the engineer, apparently delighted, turned it this way and that to enjoy the view from all sides. At once the assistant had to busy himself with writing letters introducing the new product to various domestic and foreign firms of a certain size specializing in furniture for the infirm.
Tobler collapsed the delicate apparatus by a simple turning of screws and shifting of levers, then he had Joseph wrap the thing up in good paper, took his hat and went down to the village to show those infidels, those sarcastic Bärenswilers, what a splendid invention had been completed and once more made viable in his workshop.
Joseph meanwhile was to write to the village magistrate that Tobler would be unable to attend in person the meeting to be held the following morning at nine regarding the litigation brought by Martin Grünen: urgent business prevented him. Therefore he was taking the liberty of presenting the magistrate with the necessary clarifications and compilations of figures, from which he would see that …, etc.
“My Herr Tobler is an angel!” The assistant smiled inwardly, feeling a brief twinge of malice. After this document had been prepared, his next task was to compose a similar explanatory note in a tone almost even more brusque than the one before, addressed to the most worthy district court. Once more Joseph marveled at the pithiness of his own epistolary style, as well as at the flowery and polite expressions interwoven here and there amid the forceful statements. “One should never be too coarse,” he thought whenever he found himself sidestepping into the realms of respectfulness and modesty. This letter, too, was quickly dispatched, for he had now become fairly handy at such things, a self-satisfied insight which prompted him to light himself, yet again, one of those familiar and infallible cheroots. Just let them come, the Office of the Magistrate and the district courts, as well as all the numerous treacherous official demands for payment—he and Tobler would go right on, calmly and with peace in their hearts, puffing away at their fragrant cheroots and cigars, and would keep this up for quite some time.
The Bärenswilers had gradually—first just whispering it to one another, but now proclaiming it openly on the street, in a wave of insight cresting higher and higher—reached the conviction that up at the Evening Star there would soon be nothing left to “salvage” if the necessary steps allowing at least something to be fished out of the place were not quickly set in motion with the help of the laws for the recovery of debts. And so it had come to pass that Herr Tobler was being illuminated, shadowed and pursued on all sides in accordance with the laws covering bills of exchange, both with respect to the firm and to his household finances. It was like a javelin competition on a public holiday, the way the spears came shooting up from the left and the right, from this way and that, poking the Tobler villa full of holes and ill humor. The court or debt law representative sidled about the house and the entire garden all day long, gloatingly and at the same time cozily, as if he found this locale up here particularly inviting, as if this happened to be his favorite place. It looked as if the man were secretly an admirer of nature and ornamental gardens.
Or had this haggard pointy figure been engaged by a construction syndicate or even a geographical society to take the measurements of the region using merely his eyes and his memory? Hardly! But that’s what the fellow looked like. Frau Tobler hated and feared him and hurriedly fled from the windows of the house whenever she caught a glimpse of him, as if this man were the personification of cheerless forebodings and gloom. The woman was right, for any time you ventured to observe the face of this individual, which appeared to be slammed and hammered shut, the sight chilled you to the bone—you couldn’t help feeling you’d been touched and stroked by the ice-cold hand of calamity.
This man interacted with Joseph in the most exquisitely idiosyncratic manner. He was skilled, for example, in appearing unexpectedly—as if the dark earth itself had spat him out—before the office door, where he blotted out all light and air. Then he would remain standing there for a full minute, not because he was doing or preparing something, but rather, it appeared, for his own personal delight and pleasure. Then he would open the door, but he didn’t yet enter, no, he wasn’t even thinking of that; rather, he remained standing there, apparently wishing to see what impression his sinister behavior was making. Fixing his cold eyes firmly upon the unnerved assistant, he then would enter the office, only to pause yet again for the time being. Never did he say “good day” or “good evening.” For him, the hours of the day appeared not to exist, nor even the God-given air—the man looked as if he found breathing superfluous. Clamping together the features of his bony face, he now took one or two official forms from a black-leather carrying case, raised them up absurdly high in the air, and allowed them to descend upon the desk of the assistant, his hand as silent, pointy and hooked as the talons of a bird of prey. Having fulfilled his mission, he appeared to be luxuriating in the consciousness no doubt telling him that his presence there had been comfortless and oppressive, for he gave no thought to departing but rather spent several minutes attempting to determine whether he might manage to replace the case in the pocket of his coat. Then he said—or almost said—goodbye, and left. The goodbye uttered by this man was far chillier than had he said nothing at all, it sounded offhand and at the same time intentionally cold and hard. The man then appeared about to leave, but no, first he did that horrifying thing: he stood measuring the surroundings, the house and garden, with his eyes. Then the other door opened, and Frau Tobler appeared all in a dither, her eyes like saucers, crying out anxiously: “Now he’s back in the garden again! Look, just look!”
On days when this man appeared, the weather was mostly a gray, cold, silent cross between snow and rain. The outer walls of the house were wet at their base, a piercing wind was blowing off the lake, promising new snow flurries or pelting rain, and the lake lay there so leaden and colorless and sad. Where were its beautiful evening and morning colors now? Sunk beneath the depths of the water? On days like this, morning and evening no longer existed, the hours all had the same bleak look, and the times of day seemed to have grown weary of their designations and the dear, familiar differences in the light. And if now, amid all this dreariness and this disfigurement of nature, the man with the black-leather portfolio were also to appear, it seemed to Frau Tobler and the clerk that the world had suddenly turned inside-out and that they were now gazing at the reverse of all familiar factual life rather than at earthly things. There appeared to be something spectral lingering about the lovely Tobler residence, and the happiness and delicate charm of this home, indeed its very legitimacy, appeared to have been lost in a pallid, weary, lackluster and fathomless dream. When Frau Tobler then looked out the window and beheld her summer lake, which had now become a thing of winter and fog, when she glimpsed and felt the melancholy that had laid itself over all visib
le objects, she was compelled to press her handkerchief to her eyes and weep into it.
One of the most savage creditors and dunners proved to be none other than the gardener who until then had always managed the work in the garden and had provided and cared for all the plants. This man railed like an entire battalion of railers against Tobler and his whole family, saying he would not permit himself an hour’s rest until the day came when he would have the satisfaction of seeing this “arrogant brood” thrown out of the Evening Star and all their worldly goods impounded. These harsh words were brought to Herr Tobler’s attention—half in flattery, half secretly to offend—and at once Tobler ordered that all his plants currently being stored in the greenhouses at the nursery be collected there without further ado and transferred to the cellar of his friend, the insurance agent, the one who’d taken part in the grotto celebration. Joseph was entrusted with the swift execution of this order, and he had no cause to delay. And so he set off for the nursery with a one-horse cart, which was loaded with the plants there, among them a splendid silver fir sapling that had already grown rather tall. The cart, now transformed into a garden, drove off through the streets, past a number of astonished villagers, and stopped before the quarters of the house and gentleman indicated to the driver. The insurance agent himself helped unload and carry down to the cellar as many plants as could be accommodated there. The noble young fir tree had to be tied up with ropes so that it could at least lean diagonally in vaults that were too low for its slender, proud growth. The assistant felt very sorry to see the tree housed in such conditions, but what could be done? Tobler wished it, and Tobler’s volition remained the sole unconditional guideline for Joseph’s actions.
This insurance agent had indeed remained faithful to Tobler. He was a simple but enlightened man to whom it would never have occurred to withdraw his friendship and camaraderie from a person he had come to value just because of difficulties of an external nature. He was now almost the only one left who might come up to the villa on a Sunday so as to help get up a round of Jass. There was still always something to drink at the Toblers’, thank God. Just in the past few days, a small barrel filled with excellent Rhenish wine had arrived from Mainz, a delivery that was tardy and thus all the more welcome, no doubt the result of an order placed in earlier, better days. Tobler gaped in surprise at this barrel, he could no longer even remember having commissioned this firm to send him such expensive wine. Joseph now had the additional task of bottling the wine and then sealing these bottles properly with corks, a task at which he displayed quite astonishing adroitness, so that Frau Tobler, observing this swift operation, asked in jest whether he had ever worked for a wine merchant. In this way, certain cheerful hours of diversion were to be had in the household, which contributed not a little to helping its members endure the many difficult hours, a boon that was necessary indeed for all of them and not to be underestimated. But then one day Frau Tobler suddenly fell ill.
She was forced to take to her bed, unwilling as she was to do so at such a time, and they had to send for the doctor, the very same Doctor Specker who for many weeks now had successfully avoided setting foot in a house whose inner supports were crumbling. He responded to the call, though he had every reason to fear he would receive no payment for his ministrations or for the trouble of making a midnight journey though pitch-black streets. Quietly he approached the woman’s bedside and in his manner and speech acted as if he had never given up his friendly visits, but rather had continued always to maintain his warm ties to the family. He asked sympathetically about the pain, how long Frau Tobler had felt it, etc., and performed the solemn duties of his profession in as pleasant a manner as he was able. Afterward, despite the fact that it was nearly one in the morning, Tobler showed the doctor the invalid chair, whose first life-sized model had arrived that very day. Now he could give the model its first practical trial by using it on his wife, the inventor said, attempting a humorous tone of voice, but not quite succeeding. “How about a quick glass of wine before you go?” No. The doctor left.
And so now, on top of all the other unlovely things that were occurring, she would have to stay in bed, the woman complained to everyone who appeared at her bedside. It wasn’t enough, she lamented, that everything in household and business alike was on the point of collapse—now not even health itself remained. She had to be ill just when a hand to perform labors and an eye to keep watch had become indispensable. And of course illness costs money, and where would they get it? She felt so feeble, and she so wished to be on her feet again, so wished to face the worst. Where was Dora? Dora should be sent to her.
Joseph was not allowed in the sickroom. But since her illness dragged on for days and he once had to ask her something that could not be put off, he made so bold as to enter the room. He did this with the timidity of persons usually coarse in their habits. She looked at him with a smile and offered him her hand, and he managed to wish her a swift recovery. How large her eyes were. And this hand. How terribly pale. Was that a mother raven? She asked how things were looking down in the living room, and how the children were behaving, and said weakly that now he would have to do a bit of child-rearing until she was able to get up again. She so longed to get up. Was Pauline still doing the cooking properly? And what was happening in the office?
He answered her questions and felt very happy about this moment. Was this the woman—a woman who even lying in bed was able to remain a perfect lady, whose beauty was increased rather than lessened by her illness—whom he had wished to scold with a moralistic lecture? How unjust and immature. And yet, how plausible! For Silvi was even now being treated no better than before.
Whenever Silvi was about to cry out during this period, Pauline hissed in her ears: “You keep still!” After all, there was a sick person in the house.
At the soonest appropriate opportunity Tobler set about testing his patented invalid chair on his wife. She was far from satisfied with the properties of this invention and dared to criticize the errors that marred this piece of furniture. Above all else, she said, the chair was too heavy, its weight was oppressive, and then it would have to be made wider, she felt too confined in it.
This was unpleasant news to receive from one’s own wife. Tobler, who realized that he had failed to take certain things into account, immediately set about making the necessary adjustments, quickly sketching out a few new parts at the drawing board so that the patterns could be sent to the carpenter’s workshop right away. Just a very few changes were required, and then the chair could be put into production all the more vigorously. Already a number of shops and companies had written to him to say they were looking forward to receiving a first complete model.
And the Advertising Clock, how was it faring? Negotiations were in progress with a newly founded commercial enterprise concern, all manner of quotes had been submitted, along with biographical information for the head of the firm, as this had been requested. Now it was time to wait and hope!
Meanwhile the electric lights had been shut off in the entire household by the power company for the same reasons preventing other firms from continuing to provide goods and services to the Evening Star on good faith. The sudden switching off of the electric current made Tobler nearly sick with rage and caused him to write the gentlemen from the electric company a letter that was both impotently fuming and excessively rude, one that, when it had been received and read, made these people, above all the director of the plant, burst into good-natured, derisive laughter. The members of the Tobler household now had no choice but to avail themselves once more of the humble petroleum lamps, to whose light all of them except Tobler quickly adjusted. Tobler could not reconcile himself to the absence, when he came home late at night, of his beloved electric veranda lamp: it had always appeared to him as the beautifully radiant emblem and brightly shining proof of the continued secure existence of his home. The pain he felt at the loss of this brighter light joined in his breast with the other grievous wounds and contributed to the ble
akness of his state of mind, with the result that the abrupt changefulness of his moods became daily bread for all of them.
But now, above all else, a sum of money had to be procured by any means possible, at any price. Their most urgent obligations, at the very least, had to be attended to, and so one morning it was decided that a letter would be sent to Tobler’s mother, a woman who was wealthy but stubborn and known to be unshakable in her principles. This letter went as follows:
Dear Mother!
You have no doubt heard from my lawyer Bintsch in what wretched circumstances I currently find myself. I am sitting here in my house like a bird trapped by the piercing gaze of the snake—already being killed in advance. I am so surrounded by creditors that if they were friends and benefactors I would be one of the richest and most beloved of men; but alas, these people are utterly ruthless, and I am the most beleaguered of men. Dear mother, you have already helped me extricate myself from a tight spot on more than one occasion, this I know quite well, and I have always been secretly grateful to you for this, and so now I am asking you once more, in the most urgent possible terms, the way people beg for help when the knife of public disgrace is being held to their throats: help me to save myself one time more, and send me by return mail if at all possible for you at least some provisional part of the monies to which I am still entitled today by everything that bears the name of law. Do not misunderstand me, Mother, I am not threatening you, I realize that I am entirely dependent upon your good will and that you can thrust me into ruin if you so wish, but why should you wish such a thing? At the moment my wife is also sick, your daughter. She is lying in bed and will not be able to get up again so very soon; indeed, I shall have to count myself fortunate if she is ever able to get up again. You see, this as well! What is a businessman to do when he finds himself so buffeted by slings and arrows? Until now I have always managed somehow to keep my head above water, but today I have indeed arrived at the outer limits of the absolute impossibility of keeping this up any longer. What would you say if one day soon, one fine morning or afternoon, you were to read in the newspaper that your son had taken his own li— … but no, I am not capable of uttering such a thing in its entirety, for it is to my mother I am speaking. Send me the money at once. This, too, is not a threat, I am merely urging you to do so, urging you desperately. Even in our household budget almost nothing remains, and both my wife and I have long since had to accustom ourselves to the idea that sooner or later there will be nothing left for our children to eat. I am describing to you my circumstances not as they are, but as I am making an effort to see them so as to maintain a certain propriety in what I write. My wife sends her heartfelt greetings and embraces you, as do I, your son
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