What did these people want with him? He wanted to get out, he tried to rise, but the old man pushed him down again. Then he shouted: “What are you doing with me?” “Go ahead and curse, you’ll be cursing more than that.” “You better lemme go. I’ve got to be off” “Into the street again, I suppose, or the courtyard, maybe?”
Then the old man got up from his chair, went rustling up and down the room: “Let him scream as much as he wants to. Let him do as he pleases. But not in my house. Open the door for him.” “What’s the matter, haven’t you got noise here anyway?” “Don’t bring people here who make a noise. The daughter’s children are sick, they’re back there in bed, I got enough noise already.” “Eh, eh, what a shame, I didn’t know, you must excuse me.” The redbeard grasped the man by the hands: “Come along, The Rebbe’s got his house full. The grandchildren are sick. We’ll go somewhere else.” But the other chap did not want to get up. “Come along.” He had to get up. Then he whispered: “Don’t pull. Why don’t you leave me here?” “His house is full up, I tell you, didn’t you hear?” “Just lemme stay here,”
With sparkling eyes the old man looked at the strange man who was now pleading, Thus spake Jeremiah, we would have healed Babylon, but she is not healed; forsake her, and let us go everyone into his own country, A sword is upon the Chaldeans and upon the inhabitants of Babylon.
“If he doesn’t keep still, send him away.” “All right, all right, we won’t make any noise. I’ll sit with him, you can depend on me.” Without a word the old man rustled towards the door.
Instruction through the Example of Zannovich
And so the discharged prisoner in the tan summer topcoat was sitting on the sofa again. Sighing and shaking his head, the redbeard walked through the room: “Now don’t be angry because the old man was so excited. Are you from out of town?” “Yes, I am - I was -” The red walls, the beautiful walls, cells, he couldn’t help looking at them with longing, his back seemed glued to the red wall, it was a clever man had built it, he did not leave. And the man, like a doll, rolled from the sofa down to the carpet. In falling, he knocked the table to one side. “What’s that?” cried the red chap. The discharged convict stooped over the carpet, his hat rolled down beside his hands, he thrust his head downward, moaned: “Down into the ground, into the earth, where it’s dark!” The red-haired man rugged at him: “For God’s sake. You’re among strangers. Suppose the old man should come in. Get up.” But the other one did not let himself be pulled up, he held fast to the carpet, continued moaning. “Just keep quiet, for God’s sake, suppose the old man should hear you. We’ll get along all right.” “Nobody’ll get me away from here.” Like a mole.
And as he could not get him up, the redbeard rubbed the curls on his temples, locked the door, and resolutely sat down on the floor beside him. He drew up his knees and looked at the table-legs in front of him: “It’s O. K. with me. Just stay where you are. I’ll sit down, too. Of course, it’s not comfortable, but what of it? You won’t tell me what’s wrong with you, so I’m going to tell you a story.” The discharged prisoner groaned, his head on the carpet. (Why’s he groaning and moaning? He’s gotta make a decision, that’s why, he’s gotta walk down some road-and, Franze, you don’t know of any road? You’re through with that bunk from the old days, and in the cell too, all you did was groan and hide away, and you didn’t think about anything, Franze.) The red-haired fellow said fiercely: “You shouldn’t bother so much about your own person. You should listen to others. Who told you there’s such a lot the matter with you? God won’t let any man drop out of his hands, but then there are also other people, don’t forget. Didn’t you read what Noah put into his ark, into his ship, when the great flood came? A pair of each. God didn’t forget any of them. Not even the lice on our heads did he forget. All of them were near and dear to him.” The other man was whimpering on the floor. (Whimpering doesn’t cost anything, a sick mouse can whimper. too.)
The red chap let him go on whimpering and scratched his cheeks: “There’s a lot on earth-a man could tell a lot of stories about it, when he’s young and when he’s old. You see, I’m going to tell you the story of Zannovich, Stefan Zannovich. You never heard it. When you feel better, just sit up a bit. The blood goes to your head, it’s not good for you. My late father-God bless him-told us a good deal, he traveled a lot like the people of our race do, he lived to be over seventy, died after our dear mother, knew a lot, a clever man. We were seven hungry mouths, and whenever there was nothing to eat, he told us stories. It don’t fill your stomach, but you forget things.” The muffled groaning below continued. (A sick jackass can groan, too.) “Well, well, we know that in this world there ain’t only gold, beauty, and happiness. Now, who was Zannovich, who was his father, who were his parents? Beggars like most of us, hawkers, peddlers, tradespeople. Old Zannovich came from Albania, and went to Venice. He knew why he went to Venice. Some fellows go from the city to the country, others from the country to the city. In the country it’s quieter, people turn everything around and around, you can talk for hours, and if you’re lucky, you’ve earned a couple of pfennigs. Now, in town, too, it’s hard, but the people live closer together, and they have no time. If it’s not one thing, it’s the other. Got no oxen, but fast horses with cabs. You lose and you win. Old Zannovich knew that. First sold what he had with him and then he took to cards and played with the folks. He wasn’t straight. He made a bizniz out of it, he did, knowing that folks in the city have got no time and want to be amused. He entertained ‘em all rightl It cost ‘em hard cash. A swindler, a cardsharp-that was old Zannovich, but he had a head on him. The peasants made things hard for him, here he made a softer living. Things went well with him. Till one of them suddenly imagined he had been done a wrong. Noo, old Zannovich hadn’t exactly counted on that. It came to blows, the police mixed in, and finally old Zannovich had to scoot with his children. The law of Venice was after him, the old man thought he’d rather have no dealings with the law, they don’t understand me, they couldn’t catch him either. He had horses and money with him and settled again in Albania and bought himself an estate, a whole village, he did, and his children he sent to college. And when he became very old, he died peacefully and respected. That was old Zannovich’s life. The peasants wept over him, but he never could bear them, because he always thought of the time when he had stood before them with his trinkets, rings, bracelets, and coral chains, while they turned them around and around, fiddling with them, and finally went away and left him standing there.
“Y’know, when the father’s a WI plant, he wants his son to be a tree. When the father’s a stone, he wants his son to be a mountain. Old Zannovich said to his sons: ‘I was nothing here in Albania, as long as I went peddling for twenty years, and why not? Because I didn’t take my head where it belonged. I send you to the big school, to Padua, get horses and wagons, and when you’re through studying, think of me, who had many cares together with your mother and you and who slept at night with you in the forest, like a boar: it was my own fault. The peasants had drained me dry like a bad year, and I would have gone to pieces. But I went among people and I didn’t go under.”
The red-haired chap laughed to himself, wagged his head, rocked his body. They were sitting on the carpet. “If anybody should come in now, he might think we’re both meschugge, we’ve got a sofa and we sit on the floor. Noo, if we want to, why not? If we only get some fun out of it. Young Zannovich Stefan was already a great orator as a young man of twenty. He could scrape and bow, make himself popular, he could make goo-goo eyes at the women and act noble with the men. In Padua the nobles learn from the professors, Stefan learnt from the nobles. They were all nice to him. And when he came home to Albania, his father was still living, how happy he was about him and he liked him, too, and said: ‘Look at him, there’s a man of the world for you, he won’t trade with the peasants for twenty years as I did, he’s twenty years ahead of his father.’ And the youngster stroked his silk sleeve, brushed his beautiful cur
ls from his brow and kissed his happy old father: ‘But you, father, you spared me those bad twenty years.’ ‘May they be the best of your life,’ said the old man, and patted and petted his youngster.
“And then things went like a miracle with young Zannovich, and yet it was no miracle. Everywhere people rushed to him. He had the key to all hearts. He went to Montenegro on an excursion as a cavalier with coaches and horses and servants, his father was overjoyed at seeing his son a big man-the father a little plant, the son a tree-and in Montenegro they called him count and prince. They wouldn’t have believed him, if he had said: My father’s name is Zannovich, we live in Pastrovich in a village and my father’s proud of it! They wouldn’t have believed him, he appeared on the scene so like a nobleman from Padua, and he looked like one, too, and knew them all. Then Stefan laughed and said: ‘You shall have your way.’ And pretended to the people he was a wealthy Pole, which they really believed, a Baron Warta, and then they were happy about it, and he was happy about it, too.”
The discharged prisoner had sat up with a sudden lurch. He was crouching on his knees and slyly watching the other from above. Now he said with an icy look: “Monkey!” The redhead replied contemptuously: “Well, then, I am a monkey. But monkeys know really more than many a man.” The other was forced down to the floor again. (Repent thou shalt; know what has happened; know what is needed.)
“So we can go on talking. A lot can still be learned from other people. Young Zannovich was on this road, and so it went. I didn’t experience it, nor did my father experience it, but you can imagine it, can’t you? If I ask you, you, who call me a monkey-you should not despise any animal on God’s earth, they give us meat, and they show us many a kindness, think of a horse, a dog, singing birds; monkeys I only know from the county fair, they have to do tricks, on a chain, a hard lot, sure, no man has such a hard lot - now I’m going to ask you, I can’t call you by your name, because you won’t tell me your name: how did Zannovich get that far, both the young and the old man? You think because they had brains, they were clever. Other people were clever, too, and hadn’t got as far at eighty as Stefan was at twenty. But the main things about a man are his eyes and his feet. He should be able to see the world and go after it.
“Now listen to what Stefan Zannovich did, he who had seen men and who knew how little we should be afraid of them. Just look how they smooth your way, how they almost show the blind man his road. They wanted this from him: You’re Baron Warta. That’s nize, says he, then I’m Baron Warta. Later on that wasn’t enough for him, or not for them. If he was a Baron, why not be more? There’s a celebrity in Albania, who had been dead a long time, but they honor him like people honor heroes, his name was Skanderbeg. If Zannovich could have done it, he would have said: he himself is Skanderbeg. After Skanderbeg was dead, he said, so he did, I’m a descendant of Skanderbeg’s, and threw out his chest, he was called Prince Castriota of Albania, and he’s going to make Albania great again; his followers are waiting for him. They gave him money, so that he could live like a descendant of Skanderbeg’s should live. He did the people a lot of good. They go to the theater and hear a lot of cooked-up things that are agreeable to them, and they pay for it. They could pay for it, too, couldn’t they, if the agreeable things happened to them in the afternoon, or in the morning, and they themselves could play a part in them.”
And again the man in the tan summer topcoat sat up, his face wrinkled and gloomy; he looked down at the red-haired man, coughed, his voice was changed: “Say, listen, young feller, you’re cuckoo, heh? You’re off your noodle, ain’t you?” “Cuckoo, maybe. First I’m a monkey, then I’m meschugge.” “Say, listen here, you, what do you mean sitting here and giving me a lot of your bunk?” “Who’s sitting on the floor and don’t want to get up? Me? When there’s a sofa standing right behind me? Well if it bothers you, I’ll stop talking.”
Then the other man, who had been looking around the room at the same time, drew his legs from under him and sat down with his back to the sofa, resting his hands on the carpet. “That’s right, you can sit more comfortably this way.” “Well you might stop your blathering now.” “If you like. I’ve often told the story before, I don’t care, if you don’t care.” But after a moment of silence the other turned to him again: “Just go on with your story.” “Noo, you see, a man tells stories and talks with another man, time passes better that way. I only wanted to open your eyes. Stefan Zannovich, who you heard about, got money, a lot of it, and he traveled to Germany with it. They didn’t unmask him in Montenegro. What’s to be learnt from Stefan Zannovich is that he knew about himself and about people. He was innocent like a little bird that twitters. Look here, he was so little afraid of the world, the greatest and most powerful men of his time, men to be properly afraid of, were his friends: the Elector of Saxony, the Crown Prince of Prussia, who later became a great war hero, and before whom the Austrian Empress Theresa trembled on her throne. Zannovich didn’t tremble before them. And once when Stefan came to Vienna and got in with people who were prying around him, the Empress herself raised her hand and said: Leave the youngster alone.”
Completion of the Story in an unexpected Manner and the tonic Effect it has on the discharged Prisoner
The other chap sitting on the sofa began to laugh, he fairly neighed: “You’re a card. You should join the circus as a clown.” The redhead sniggered, too: “So you see how it was. But keep quiet, the old man’s grandchildren. Maybe we’d better sit down on the sofa, after all. What do you say?” The other laughed, crept up and raised himself slowly, sat down in one corner of the sofa, while the red-haired man sat in the other corner: “You sit softer that way, you don’t rumple your coat, either.” The man in the summer topcoat stared at the redhead from his corner: “You certainly are a funny bird - I haven’t seen the likes of you in ages.” The redhead, quietly: “Maybe you didn’t take a good look, there are some. You got your coat dirty, they don’t clean their shoes here.” The discharged prisoner, a man of about thirty, had merry eyes, his face was fresher: “Say, tell me, what are you selling anyway? You must be living on the moon.” “Well, that’s fine, let’s talk about the moon, now.”
A man with a curly, brown beard had been standing at the door for about five minutes. He went to the table, sat down in a chair. He was young, wore a black plush hat like the other. He described a circle in the air with his hand, then began in his shrill voice: “Who’s that? What are you doing with him?” “And what are you doing here, Eliser? I don’t know him, he won’t tell his name.” “You’ve been telling him stories.” “Well, what’s it to you?” The brownbeard to the convict: “Did he tell you stories, that one?” “He don’t talk. He just walks around and sings in the courtyards.” “Then let him go.” “It’s none of your business what I’m doing.” “But I overheard what happened at the door. You told him about Zannovich. What else would you do but tell stories and stories?” Then the stranger, who had been staring at the brownbeard, grumbled: “Who are you and how’d you get in here, anyway? What do you want to mix in his affair for?” “Did he tell you about Zannovich, or not? He’s been tellin’ you stories. Nachum, my brother-in-law, goes around everywhere telling stories and stories and can’t do anything for himself.” “Did I ever ask you to help me? Don’t you see he’s feeling bad, you low-life?” “What of it, if he’s not feeling well? You didn’t get an order from God, just look at him, God waited till he came along. Alone God wasn’t able to help.” “Low-life.” “Keep away from that man, I tell you. He probably told you how Zannovich or some other feller got up in the world.” “You better get out of here soon!” “Just listen to the swindler, the charily hound. Wants to talk to me. Is it his house? Noo, what did you tell him again about your Zannovich, and how a man can learn from him? You should o’ become one of our Rebbes. We would o’ fattened you up, sure enough.” “I don’t need your charity.” The brownbeard shouted again: “And we don’t need any sponges around here always hanging on to a man’s coal-tails. Did he
also tell you what happened to his Zannovich finally, in the end?” “You rascaL you low-life.” “Did he tell you that?” The prisoner blinked wearily at the red-haired chap who shook his fist and walked towards the door, he growled after the red-haired man: “Hey, there, don’t run away; don’t get excited, let him shoot his bull.”
The brown-bearded fellow was already talking violently to him, fidgeting with his hands, shifting back and forth, clucking, and jerking his head, with a different expression every moment, turning now to the stranger, now to the redhead: “He makes people meschugge. Let him tell you what kind of an end his Stefan Zannovich came to. He don’t tell it, why don’t he tell it, why, I ask you?” “Because you are a low-life, Eliser.” “A better man than you are. They” (the brownbeard lifted both hands disgustedly, making terrible goggle-eyes) “chased his Zannovich out of Florence like a thief. Why? Because they found him out.” The red-haired fellow placed himself menacingly before him, the brownbeard brushed him aside: “It’s my turn to talk now. He wrote letters to princes, a prince gets lots of letters, you can’t tell from the handwriting what a man is. Then he stuck out his chest and went to Brussels as a Prince of Albania and mixed up in high politics. It was his bad angel told him to do that. He goes to the government, just imagine Stefan Zannovich, the youngster, and promises to give them a hundred thousand men or two hundred, it don’t matter, for a war, with somebody or other. The government writes a little letter, thank you very much, they’re not interested in uncertain enterprises. Then his bad angel told Stefan Zannovich, take the letter and get a loan on it. Didn’t you have the letter from the minister with the address, To His Royal Highness the Prince of Albania on it? They loaned him money, and that was the end of the swindler. How old did he get to be? Thirty years, he didn’t get to be any older than that as a punishment for his evil-doing. He couldn’t pay the money back, they reported him to the authorities in Brussels and that’s how everything came out. Your hero, Nachum! Did you tell about his black end in prison where he opened his veins? And after he was dead - a fine life, a fine end, go on and tell it-the executioner came, then the knacker with a wagon for dead dogs and horses and cats, and loaded him on the wagon, Stefan Zannovich himself, yes, sir, and chucked him out by the gallows and dumped garbage from the town all over him.”
Berlin Alexanderplatz Page 2
