The Glass Bees

by Ernst Jünger

  His director of public relations had developed a system of indirect reportage which stimulated but never quite satisfied curiosity. A famous person whose face one does not know is generally thought of as being handsome and imposing. A person who is much discussed but whose residence is unknown is suspected of being everywhere—he seems to multiply himself miraculously. A person so powerful that one does not even dare speak of him becomes almost omnipresent, since he dominates our inner life. We imagine that he overhears our conversations and that his eyes rest on us in our closest and most private moments. A name that is only whispered is more powerful than one shouted from the rooftops. All this Zapparoni knew. On the other hand he could not ignore publicity completely. This fact introduced mystifying surprises into his propaganda. It was a new system.

  I cannot deny that I was gripped with fear when I heard the servant say: “Mr. Zapparoni is expecting you.” I felt the crass disproportion between one of the mighty of the earth and a man who had scarcely enough money in his pocket to pay his fare home. All at once I was overcome by the feeling that I was not equal to this confrontation. It was a sign that I was, in fact, on the downgrade—a feeling that I had never known before. Monteron had often told us that, under no circumstances, was a cavalryman allowed to indulge in this feeling. He would also say: “Only when the captain leaves the ship is the ship lost and derelict. The true captain goes down with his ship.”

  All this went through my mind while my knees trembled. I also thought of the times, long ago, when movies and automatons did not yet exist for us—except perhaps at the annual fairs—and we had looked down our noses at those steel, textile, and coal tycoons. A small landowner with two-hundred acres, whose sleep was troubled by the thought of his debts, was more easily accepted by the Light Cavalry than those fellows who drove the first automobiles which made the horses shy. The horses sensed what was in store for them. Since then the world had changed.

  Because Zapparoni was taking the time to receive me personally, I concluded that he thought I could be a partner. This thought stung me. Could I really be a partner in some regular business? If, for example, a poor girl gets a job with a big firm, where she has to keep the files in order, take shorthand or type, she may never see the head of the firm face to face. She is not his partner. But should she someday be seen with him on the beach or in a night club, she would grow in importance while, at the same time, losing respect. She would then have become an irregular partner as a consequence of entering into a power relationship. On the legitimate side she would have become weak, but on the illegitimate, strong.

  Zapparoni’s reception of me in his private residence—me, the hungry, discharged cavalryman—put me in a similar situation. He could not make a great show of me. Neither in his offices nor in his workshops could I be of any use. And even if I could handle these positions brilliantly, he would scarcely make a personal effort to get hold of me. Clearly, therefore, he was expecting something different of me—some work which one doesn’t imagine everybody capable of or wanting to do.

  With these thoughts in mind, I felt very much like taking to my heels, although I was already halfway up the stairs. But there was Teresa, there were my debts, there was my hopeless situation. Most likely he required a man in just this kind of fix. If I turned back now, I would regret it.

  And there was something else. Why should I pretend to be a better man than I am? Monteron scarcely ever occupied himself with philosophy—unless one wants to consider Clausewitz a philosopher—but he liked to quote as one of his favorite maxims: “There are, once and for all, matters I do not wish to know.” His predilection for this maxim betrayed a straightforward singleness of mind, without subterfuges or bypaths. The phrase, “to understand is to forgive,” did not exist for him. Both the master and the moralist are revealed in restraint.

  Although I learned and adopted a great deal from Monteron, in this respect I never followed his example. On the contrary, there are very few things into which I haven’t poked my nose. But you cannot change your nature. My father had often reproached me for this. When we were dining out, for example, and he handed me the menu, he would say: “Isn’t it strange that the boy always selects the most unusual dishes, though the ordinary menu is excellent.”

  He was right: the restaurant offered a good bill of fare. The cadets used to dine there. But the menu was boring. I studied it carefully, looking for bamboo sprouts and Indian birds’ nests. Father then relented and only said to my mother: “He cannot have inherited it from me.”

  He was right as always (my mother had good and simple tastes too). In any case, it is doubtful whether such idiosyncrasies are inheritable. I rather think that they are drawn like prizes in a lottery.

  To go back to the menu: the dishes I selected on account of their names usually were a disappointment. Later on, when traveling, I had the same experience with exotic delicacies and stimulants. I rarely let them pass. Houses of ill-repute and bars, sinister streets and neighborhoods, obscene antique shops also attracted me. And it was hard to resist the type who beckoned me to follow him into a dark doorway on Montmartre with the intention of leading me to his sister. This would not have been unusual if, at the same time, I had not felt a strong aversion to these situations. But my curiosity got the upper hand. Yet I was never satisfied; in the same way that I choked over those distasteful and strangely named dishes, so the sight of human degradation could not satisfy me. Vice left a melancholy, painful, and lasting memory. This explains why it never got a hold on me. Yet I am still puzzled why I searched for it again and again. Only after I met Teresa did I learn that a handful of water gives more strength than any magic potion.

  Incidentally, my curiosity was sometimes an asset to me, for a cavalryman’s chief task is reconnaissance. When patrolling an unsafe terrain, I frequently reconnoitered far beyond what was necessary and ordered. This led to unsuspected discoveries, and the front-line officers were impressed. Well, there is no defect without its own virtue and vice versa.

  In short, on Zapparoni’s staircase I felt that I was venturing upon an ambiguous adventure, though from necessity. My old fatal curiosity, however, stirred again and goaded me on. I was itching to hear what the Old Man had up his sleeve, and why he had condescended to take an interest in me. Curiosity provoked me almost more strongly than the prospect of profit. After all, hadn’t I often wriggled my head out of the noose, and hadn’t I frequently nibbled the bait without getting hooked?

  So I followed the servant into the old house which gave the impression of a country seat. The entrance led into a hallway where not only hats and coats but fowling pieces and fishing tackle were kept. Then we came into a large hall, two stories high, hung with trophies and with engravings by Riederer. Two or three additional chambers followed, larger than a room but smaller than a hall.

  All the rooms were on the south side of the house, and the sunshine, subdued by the opaque window panes, filtered down upon the carpets. I was shown into the library. At first sight all of the furniture seemed within the means of any well-to-do person, and it did not come up to my expectations. Influenced by newspaper reports, I had expected to see a kind of magician’s study, where the visitor is partly amazed and partly nonplussed by mechanical surprises. In this I saw at once I had been completely mistaken. Of course I should have guessed that a magician and lord of automatons would not want that sort of thing in the privacy of his home. Certainly, we all relax in ways as utterly different from our occupations as possible. A general will hardly play with toy soldiers and a mailman will not willingly march for miles on a Sunday. It is also said that clowns are almost always grave, if not melancholy, within their four walls.

  Here, one’s eyes were not hurt by the bad taste of the furnishings, as in rooms of the newly rich. There was no display of wealth in the manner of Trimalchio. Zapparoni must not only have employed an excellent interior decorator but must be a man of taste himself. The style of the furnishings showed this. Harmony such as this cannot be made to
order; it is created by an inner need, by the character of the man who had made this his home. Here was no chilling splendor, no wish merely to show off; the rooms were inhabited by an intelligent and cultivated human being who felt at home in them.

  Natives of southern countries—they may come from a Sicilian village or be the descendants of a Neapolitan basso—frequently possess a taste as infallible as that handed down by long family tradition. They have an unerring ear for melody and, in the fine arts, an incorruptible eye for the hand of the master. I had often observed this. The only danger lies in their vanity.

  The whole house bore the mark of sensible moderation: it was not pompous but radiated a breath of life. This was especially noticeable in the works of art. On occasion I’d had the chance to see famous paintings and sculpture, otherwise known only from calendars or museums, in the houses of men who had recently come into wealth or power. The sight of these works had been disappointing, because they had lost their expression and their language, just as birds, imprisoned in a cage, forfeit their song and their brilliance. A work of art wastes away and becomes lusterless in surroundings where it has a price but not a value. It radiates only when surrounded by love. It is bound to wilt in a world where the rich have no time and the cultivated no money. But it never harmonizes with borrowed greatness.

  Zapparoni, however—I saw that in passing—obviously had time. The five or six paintings which hung on the walls impressed me as objects upon which their owner’s eye rested daily with love. None of them could have been painted after 1750. Among them was a Poussin. They all gave off a breath of peace, and disclaimed any effect. By this I do not mean the effect of modern painters, who limit themselves to pure invention, but the effect produced by masters. These paintings, assembled here by Zapparoni, could never have seemed surprising, not even to their contemporaries. From the very beginning they must have seemed familiar.

  This impression, transmitted to the entire house, was linked with another impression, concerning the problem of pure power, and was intensified by it. As I said before, we live in times when words have lost or changed their meaning and have become ambiguous. This also holds true for the word “house,” formerly the very essence of stability and permanence. For some time now a house has become a sort of tent, but without giving the freedom enjoyed by nomads. Buildings are pushed up high, and jerry-built structures rise by the thousands. This would not be so bad if, at least for a short while, one could feel safe in one’s own and untouchable home. The opposite is true: today the man who has the courage to build himself a house constructs a meeting place for the people who will descend upon him on foot, by car, or by telephone. Employees of the gas, the electric, and of the waterworks will arrive; agents of life and fire insurance companies; building inspectors, collectors of the radio tax; mortgage creditors and rent assessors who tax you for living in your own home.

  When the political climate grows harsher, quite different people turn up and know at once where to find you. In addition to these nuisances, the odium of being a proprietor clings to you.

  It was easier in the old days. Even though you had fewer conveniences, you felt at peace when you stretched your legs under your own table. This was the very feeling I had about Zapparoni, namely, that he was still master in his own house. I could have bet that no gas meters or other connections existed here, at least not the kind that lead out of the premises. Probably Zapparoni had transferred the pattern of a feudal state to his household, and his automatons had enabled him to do this. In the automaton, abstract power becomes concrete and returns into the object. I noticed nothing of this directly, it was more a question of atmospheric perception. Candles stood on the table and there was even an hourglass on the mantelpiece.

  Quite obviously, the person who lived here did not live on a pension; he distributed pensions. Here no police could intrude, no matter what the order or what the pretext. Not only did Zapparoni have his own police to carry out his, and only his, instructions, but the whole plant and its connecting roads were guarded by policemen and engineers of State and Army, who, true to the letter, had to act with him “in agreement,” but actually could have no opinion of their own.

  The question, of course, arises: why was a man with such prerogatives dependent upon me, of all people—someone up to his neck in difficulties. Here lay that mystery of which I have already spoken. The fact is—and it must be a strange, deeply-rooted one—that a person, however many legal methods of action he has at his disposal, is still dependent on loopholes for carrying out his plans. The legal sphere, small or large, always borders upon the illegal one. The borderline advances with the prerogatives. For that reason transgressions are found more frequently among those on top than among those on the bottom. When prerogatives become absolute, the frontiers tend to blur, and it is difficult to distinguish between right and wrong. At this point people are needed with whom one can “steal horses.”

  IV

  After the servant had shown me into the library, he left me alone. He had behaved with the utmost politeness. I mention this because it shows how suspicious I had become. I had come to watch everyone I met, and was much more quickly hurt than I used to be. In any case, I could draw no conclusion from the behavior of the servant: perhaps his master had made a derogatory remark concerning my visit; perhaps not. Well, I still doubted that I would meet Zapparoni face to face—one of his secretaries would probably enter at any moment.

  It was peaceful in the library. The books gave the room a quiet dignity. They lined the shelves in bindings of light parchment, flamed vellum, and brown morocco. The volumes bound in parchment were inscribed by hand; the leatherbacks bore red and green labels or had their titles printed in gold. In spite of its age, the collection of books did not give the impression of being there as decoration. I examined a few titles—early technical treatises, books on the cabala, Rosicrucianism, and alchemy—but they didn’t tell me much. Perhaps in such books a mind could relax reading about the ancient false trails.

  The thick walls would have made the room gloomy, had not the high windows, which almost reached to the floor, let in a flood of light. The French doors were open; and led out onto a large terrace.

  Looking out over the park was like looking at an old painting. The trees sparkled in the brilliance of their fresh foliage; the eye sensed their roots drawing moisture from deep down in the soil. They formed a border along the little brook, which ran lazily, at times widening into pools which glistened with a green coat of algae. These had once been the fishponds of the monks; the Cistercians had built in the marshland like beavers.

  It was a piece of luck that the wall was still intact. In the vicinity of cities, these rings of stone have generally been demolished and now serve as quarries. But now and then one saw here the gray stone showing through the leaves of the trees. The wall even seemed to enclose a field, since in the distance I could see a peasant walking behind his plow. The air was clear; the sun glinted on the coats of the horses and on the clods which were broken up by the plowshare. It was an idyllic picture, although a surprising one to find on the premises of a man who, among other things, dealt in tractors which loosened the topsoil of flowerbeds like moles. But everything in his household clearly indicated museum tendencies. Most likely he did not want to see machines when, from his terrace, he looked at his trees and ponds. There was the additional advantage that only garden produce grown in the old manner appeared on his table. Here, the saying that words’ have changed is still valid, since bread is no longer bread and wine no longer wine. They are doubtful chemicals. At present one really has to be unusually rich to avoid being poisoned. No doubt about it: this man Zapparoni was a sly fox who understood how to live in his Malpertuis—and at the expense of fools. He was like the pharmacist who asks the most exorbitant prices for his pills and miracle-drugs, while he, himself, keeps in good health as his forefathers did.

  No doubt, there was peace in this place. The steady roar of the plant, the rumble from the parking lot and th
e driveways reached me only as a low murmur across the treetops. I could, on the other hand, hear the melodies of the blackbirds and finches, and the woodpecker rap with its beak against rotting tree trunks. Thrushes hopped and lingered on the lawns, and now and then the plop of a leaping carp could be heard from the ponds. On the flower-crowded borders and medallions in front of the terrace, bees crossed to and fro, sharing with the butterflies the sweet loot. It was a May day in its full glory.

  After I had examined the paintings and the books with their odd tides, I sat down on one of the two chairs which stood by a small table, and gazed through the wide-open door. The air was purer here than in the city and almost intoxicating. The eye rested on the old trees, the green ponds, and on the brown field in the distance, where the peasant made his furrows, turning his plow about at the end of each.

  Just as we still feel the winter in our bones on a warm day in spring, I felt, before this vista, the deep discontent which had clouded my life in these last years. A retired cavalryman cuts a poor figure in the middle of these cities, where the neighing of a horse is no longer heard. How things had changed since Monteron’s death! Words had lost their meaning; even war was no longer war. Monteron would turn in his grave if he could hear what they called war nowadays. After all, peace was no longer peace.

  Two or three times more, we were to ride our horses on the plains where, ever since the Great Migration of the Peoples, armed horsemen had moved, time and again. Soon we were to learn that this was no longer possible. We had proudly worn our handsome and colorful uniforms, which could be seen glittering from a distance, but we could no longer see our opponent. Marksmen, invisible to us, took aim at long range and unhorsed us. If we managed to reach them, we found them within a web of wires which cut through the fetlocks of the horses and was impossible to jump. This was the end of the cavalry. We had to dismount.