The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge

by Rainer Maria Rilke

  [30] And then came one of those illnesses that had the effect of demonstrating to me that that was not the first experience that was wholly mine. The fever raged within me and dredged up from deep below experiences, images, facts I had known nothing of; I lay there, surfeited with myself, and waited for the moment when I would be commanded to layer it all back into me, in an orderly fashion, in proper sequence. I made a start, but it grew beneath my hands; it resisted; it was much too much. Then in a fit of fury I tossed it all inside me in a heap and crushed it together; but now I couldn't get myself to close up. And then I screamed, half open as I was, I screamed and screamed. And when I began to look out of myself once again, they had been standing about my bed for a long time and holding my hands, and there was a candle, and their great shadows moved behind them. And my father ordered me to say what the matter was. It was a friendly, muted order, but it was an order nonetheless. And he grew impatient when I made no answer.

  Maman never came to me at night – or rather, she did come once. I had been screaming and screaming, and Mademoiselle had come, and Sieversen, the housekeeper, and Georg, the coachman; but it had been no use. And at length they had sent the carriage for my parents, who were at a great ball, given by the Crown Prince, I believe. And all at once, I heard it drive into the courtyard, and I fell silent, sat up, and fixed my eyes on the door. And then there was a faint rustling sound in the adjacent rooms, and Maman came in, in her magnificent court gown, not paying heed to it at all, almost running, and letting her white fur fall behind her, and taking me in her bare arms. And I, with an astonishment and rapture I had never felt before, touched her hair and her small, immaculate face and the cold stones at her ears and the silk that fringed her bloom-fragrant shoulders. And thus we remained, weeping tenderly and kissing, until we sensed that Father was there and we had to separate. ‘He has a high temperature,’ I heard Maman say timidly, and Father reached for my hand and took my pulse. He was wearing the uniform of the Master of the Hunt, and the beautiful, broad, watered blue ribbon of the Order of the Elephant. ‘What nonsense, sending for us,’ he observed to the room without looking at me. They had promised to go back if it was nothing serious. And it was not serious. But on my counterpane I found Maman's dance card and white camellias, which I had never seen and which I laid on my eyes when I noticed how cool they were.

  [31] But it was the afternoons that were long during such illnesses. In the morning after a bad night, you always fell asleep, and when you woke and supposed it was still early in the day, it was in fact afternoon, and continued to be afternoon, and did not cease to be afternoon. There you lay in your freshly made bed, perhaps growing a little at the joints, far too tired to conceive of anything at all. The taste of stewed apple stayed in your mouth, and that was all you were capable of: involuntarily to interpret that flavour, and savour the pure acidity in place of thoughts. Later, when your strength returned, the pillows were propped up behind you and you could sit up and play with soldiers; but they fell over so easily on the tilted bed-tray, and always the whole row of them at once; and you were not yet so fully back in life that you could start all over again time after time. Suddenly it was all too much, and you asked to have everything taken away quickly, and it was good to see only your two hands again, a little further off on the cleared counterpane.

  At times, when Maman came for half an hour to read me fairy tales (proper reading, for longer times, was Sieversen's task), it was not for the sake of the stories. We were in agreement that we did not care for fairy tales. Our idea of what was wondrous was a different one. We felt that the most wondrous thing of all was when things happened perfectly naturally. We were unimpressed by flying through the air; fairies disappointed us; and when things were transformed into something else, we had no expectation of anything but the most superficial of changes. But still we read a little, to appear occupied; we did not think it pleasant to have to explain what we were doing when someone came in, and towards Father in particular we made things exceedingly self-explanatory.

  Only if we were quite certain that we would not be disturbed, and darkness was falling outside, did we sometimes revel in memories; memories that we shared, which seemed old to both of us and which we smiled at; for we had both grown up since then. We recalled that there was a time when Maman wished I had been a little girl and not the boy I in fact was. Somehow or other I had guessed this, and it had occurred to me sometimes to knock on Maman's door in the afternoon. When she asked who it was, I delighted in calling ‘Sophie’ from outside, making my little voice so dainty that it tickled my throat. And when I entered (in the small, girlish house-dress that I wore anyway, with the sleeves rolled right up) I was quite simply Sophie, Maman's little Sophie, busy about the house, and Maman had to plait her hair for her so that she could not be mistaken for that bad Malte, if he ever came back. This was not at all desirable; both Maman and Sophie were pleased that he was gone, and their talk (Sophie continuing in the same invariably high-pitched voice) consisted mainly in enumerating Malte's naughty doings and complaining about him. ‘Oh, that Malte,’ sighed Maman. And Sophie had a good deal to say about the wickedness of boys in general, as if she knew a great many of them.

  ‘I should dearly like to know what has become of Sophie,’ Maman would suddenly say while we shared our memories. On that score, of course, Malte could supply no information. But if Maman ventured that doubtless she was dead, he would contradict her wilfully and implore her not to believe it, however little evidence there might be to the contrary.

  [32] If I think about it now, I am amazed that I was always able to make a complete return from the world of those fevers, and to find my way back into that altogether shared existence in which everyone sought reassurance that he was among familiar things and where people were careful not to stray from the realm of the comprehensible. If they had an expectation, it was either fulfilled or it was not; there was no third option. There were things that were sad, and that was that; there were pleasant things; and there were a great many things of no consequence at all. But if a special treat was prepared for you, it was a special treat and you had to behave accordingly. Essentially it was all very straightforward, and, once you had the knack, things took care of themselves. Within the agreed boundaries, everything fitted in: those long, monotonous hours at school when it was summer outside; walks that you afterwards had to describe in French; visitors you were called in to meet, who declared you a droll child if you happened to be heavy-hearted and were as amused by you as they might be by the melancholy faces of certain birds that have no other faces to put on. And then of course the birthdays, to which children were invited whom you hardly knew, children who were ill at ease and made you awkward yourself, or forward children who scratched your face and broke your presents and were suddenly gone when everything had been pulled out of boxes and drawers and was piled up everywhere. If you were playing on your own, though, as usual, there were occasions when you inadvertently ventured beyond that agreed-on and largely innocuous world and found yourself in circumstances that were completely different and unforeseeable.

  At times Mademoiselle had her migraine, which was exceptionally violent; and on those days I was hard to find. I know that the coachman would be sent to look in the park if Father chanced to ask after me and I wasn't there. From upstairs, from one of the guest rooms, I could see him walking out and calling for me from the start of the long avenue. These guest rooms were adjacent to each other under the gables of Ulsgaard, and at that period, since we very seldom had house guests, they were almost always unoccupied. Next to them, however, was the large corner room that held so powerful an attraction for me. There was nothing to be discovered in it apart from an old bust, of Admiral Juel,21 I believe; but the walls were lined all around with deep wardrobes painted grey, such indeed that the window had had to be positioned in the bare, whitewashed wall above the wardrobes. I had found the key in one of the wardrobe doors, and it opened all the rest. So in a short time I had examined everything
: the eighteenth-century chamberlains' frock-coats, quite cold from the inwoven silver threads, and the beautifully embroidered waistcoats that were worn with them; the uniforms of the Orders of the Dannebrog and of the Elephant, so sumptuous and ceremonial and with lining so soft to the touch that at first one took them for ladies' gowns; and then real gowns, which, outspread on their frames, hung stiffly like puppets in some outsize show that was now so out of fashion that their heads had been put to some other use. Alongside these, however, there were wardrobes that were dark when opened, dark from the high-buttoned uniforms inside, which looked far more used than all the rest and really did not wish to be kept.

  No one will find it surprising that I took all these things out to see them in the light; that I now held one against me, now wrapped another round me; that I hastily tried on a costume that might roughly fit and, curious and excited, ran into the first of the guest rooms to see myself in a slender pier-glass composed of sheets of glass in varying shades of green. Oh, how I trembled to be in the costume, and how thrilling it was when I actually wore it; when something emerged from the gloom, more slowly than oneself, for the mirror did not believe it, as it were, and, sleepy as it was, did not want promptly to repeat what it was told; though at length it had to, of course. And now I beheld something that took me very much by surprise, something unfamiliar, altogether different from what I had imagined, something that was suddenly there, with a life of its own, to which I gave a cursory glance, only to recognize myself the next moment, not without a certain irony that came within a hair's-breadth of spoiling all the fun. But if I began to talk right away, to bow, to wave to myself, to withdraw while constantly looking back and then to return in a resolute and agitated manner, I had imagination on my side as long as I pleased.

  In those days, I came to recognize the very real power that a particular costume can exert. Scarcely had I put on one of these outfits than I had to concede that it had me in its thrall; it dictated my movements, my facial expression, even the thoughts that occurred to me. My hand, on which the lace cuff fell and fell again, was not at all my everyday hand; it moved like an actor – indeed, I might say it observed itself, exaggerated though that sounds. These disguises never went so far as to make me feel a stranger to myself, though; on the contrary, the more my transformations varied, the more convinced I was of my own self. I grew more and more daring; I flung myself higher and higher – for my ability to catch myself was beyond all doubt. I was unaware of the temptation that lurked in this rapidly growing assurance. All that remained to complete my undoing was that one day the final wardrobe, which I had so far thought I could not open, yielded and offered me up, not particular costumes, but all manner of odd stuff for masquerades, the fantastic possibilities of which had the blood rushing to my cheeks. It is impossible to tell of all the things that were there. Apart from a bautta22 I remember, there were dominoes of various colours, there were ladies' skirts that tinkled lightly with the coins sewn on to them, there were Pierrots I found silly, and there were pleated Turkish trousers, and Persian caps from which little sachets of camphor slipped out, and diadems with stupid, expressionless stones. All of these I rather despised; they were of so paltry an unreality, hanging there stripped of life and wretched, and collapsing, bereft of will, whenever they were dragged out into the light. But what transported me into raptures were the sweeping cloaks, the wraps, the shawls, the veils, all those yielding, magnificent, unused materials that were soft and caressing, or so sheer that I could hardly keep hold of them, or so light that they flew by me like a wind, or simply heavy with all their own weight. It was in them that I saw, for the first time, truly free and infinitely variable possibilities: to be a slave girl and sold off, or to be Joan of Arc, or an old king, or a sorcerer; all of these I now had in my hand, the more so since there were masks as well, large threatening ones or astonished faces with real beards and thick or arched eyebrows. I had never set eyes on masks before, but I understood why there had to be masks right away. I could not help laughing when it occurred to me that we had a dog that behaved as if it were wearing one. I pictured its affectionate eyes that always seemed to be gazing from behind into a hairy face. I was still laughing as I put on the clothes, and quite forgot what I had meant to dress up as. Still, it was novel and exciting to decide only with hindsight, when I was standing in front of the mirror. The face I had tied on had a curiously hollow smell; it was a tight fit over my own face, but I could see through it comfortably; and only when the mask was properly on did I pick out a variety of scarves, which I bound about my head like a turban, so that the edge of the mask, which extended below into an immense yellow cloak, was almost entirely covered at the top and sides as well. At length, when there was no way to add anything else, I decided that I was sufficiently disguised. For good measure I picked up a big staff, which I took along with me at arm's length; and thus, not without difficulty but (I imagined) full of dignity, I trailed into the guest room and up to the mirror.

  Now this really was superb. It exceeded all my expectations. The mirror instantly returned my image; it was too, too convincing. There really was no need to move much at all; this apparition was perfect, even if it did nothing. But the point was to find out what I actually was, and so I turned a little and finally raised both arms, in grand gestures as if I were casting a spell: that, I realized, was the only appropriate manner. At that very moment of solemn ceremony, however, I heard quite near me, muffled by my own disguise, a noise that came from a number of sources. Startled in the extreme, I looked away from that creature over there, and to my distinct annoyance found that I had knocked over a small, round table with heaven knew what objects on it, in all likelihood very fragile. I bent down as well as I could and found my worst fears confirmed: everything seemed to be in pieces. The two pointless green-and-violet porcelain parrots had of course been smashed, each in a different grievous way. A bonbonnière, from which sweets resembling insects in silken cocoons had rolled, had cast its lid far away, and I could see only the one half, the other having vanished. The most troubling sight of all, however, was a scent flacon that had been broken into a thousand tiny fragments; the remnant of some old essence or other had spilled out of it, and had now made a stain of most offensive physiognomy on the spotless parquet. I hastily dabbed it dry with something that was hanging down from me, but the stain only grew darker and more unpleasant. I was in utter despair. I got to my feet and looked for something I could use to put everything right. But there was nothing. In any case, my vision and movements were so restricted that anger surged up within me at my nonsensical state, which I no longer saw the point of. I pulled at my garb, but it only wrapped tighter about me. The cords of the cloak were strangling me, and the stuff on my head was pressing on me as if more and more were being added. What was more, the air had grown thick, as if misted by the olden vapour of the spilled liquid.

  Hot and furious, I rushed to the mirror and, with some difficulty, watched through the mask the working of my hands. But that was exactly what He had been waiting for. His moment of retribution had come. While I struggled, with a measurelessly mounting sense of trepidation, somehow or other to tear my way free of my disguise, He compelled me – I do not know by what means – to look up, and imposed on me an image, no, a reality, a strange, incomprehensible, monstrous reality, in which I was steeped against my will: for He was now the stronger, and I was the mirror. I stared at this great, terrible unknown figure before me and felt appalled to be alone with Him. But at the selfsame moment that I was thinking this, the very worst happened, and I lost all sense of myself: I simply ceased to exist. For a second I felt an indescribable, poignant and futile longing for myself, and then He was the only one who remained: there was nothing but Him.

  I ran. But now He was the one who was running. He bumped into everything; He was unfamiliar with the house, and did not know which way to turn; He made it down a flight of stairs, and in the passage He stumbled over someone who disentangled herself and called out. A door o
pened, a number of people emerged from it: oh, oh, what a relief it was to recognize them. That was Sieversen, dear Sieversen, and the housemaid, and the butler: this was the decisive moment. But they did not dash over to the rescue; their cruelty was boundless. They stood and laughed: my God, they simply stood there and laughed. I was crying, but the mask prevented the tears from flowing out, and instead they ran down my face inside it, and dried, and ran and dried again. And at last I was kneeling before them as no one had ever knelt; I knelt, and raised my hands up to them, and implored them: ‘Take me out, if you still can, and keep me safe.’ But they did not hear me; I no longer had any voice.

  To the end of her days, Sieversen would tell how I sank to the floor and how they went on laughing, supposing this was part of the game. They were used to my getting up to that kind of thing. But I stayed there, she would say, lying on the floor, never making a word of answer. And how alarmed they were when they finally realized that I was unconscious and lay just like some lifeless piece of something or other amid all those wraps, just like any piece.

  [33] Time passed with incalculable speed, and suddenly the moment for Dr Jespersen the preacher to be invited over had come once again. For all concerned, it was a tiresome and tedious breakfast. Accustomed to decidedly pious neighbours who were invariably at his feet, he was out of his element when he visited us, and lay there on dry land, as it were, gasping. He found it difficult to breathe through the gills he had evolved – he came out in blisters; the whole situation was not without its dangers. To be candid, there was nothing whatsoever to talk about; remnants were dragged out and disposed of at unbelievable prices – everything had to go. When he visited us, Dr Jespersen had to content himself with being some sort of private person; but that was precisely what he had never been. As long as he could remember, he had been in the souls department. The soul was a public institution, which he represented, and he contrived never to be off duty, not even in his relations with his wife, ‘his modest, faithful Rebekka, beatified by the bearing of children’, as Lavater23 put it when writing of another case.