1914
The Secretary
I had the audacity to write a book that caused quite a stir. As a consequence I was permitted to interact in a casual manner with people of substance. The doors of serious, elegant households were flung wide open to admit me, which was most certainly to my advantage. All I had to do was stroll right in and take care to behave in an agreeable manner as consistently as possible. Once I set foot in a gathering of at least forty full-blooded celebrities. Just imagine how glorious that was!
The commercial head of an association for practitioners of the fine arts one day invited me, after appropriate deliberation, to become his secretary. “I hope,” he said, “that you will prove just as capable of selling pictures as you are of publishing books!” The offer was too kind to be dismissed out of hand. Accepting this proposal, I resolved that from this moment on I would consider myself fairly remarkable. I felt obliged to remind myself that a person who, upon receiving support, neither feels gratified nor shows his pleasure and gives voice to his satisfaction insults the world at large.
It’s plain to see: a keen mind, superior intelligence, a high or the highest level of education and culture should, if this is somehow conceivable, be expected of all secretaries. Even their external appearance must, it goes without saying, be proper and distinguished. One assumes them to be pliant and at the same time clever, suave, gallant and at the same time in every way resolved to achieve commercial success. Elegant manners and glossy social savoir faire number decisively among their inborn qualities.
I don’t know whether I did in fact display all the above-mentioned traits, but I do know that half the city came traipsing through my office. Persons of all dispositions, of every rank and station came barging more or less vigorously into the ministry, I mean headquarters: the cream of society, elegant agents, poor journeymen, sly Gypsies, unruly poets, alarmingly refined ladies, dour princes, strikingly handsome young officers, authors, actresses, sculptors, diplomats, politicians, critics, journalists, theater directors, virtuosos, celebrated scholars, publishers, and wizards in the field of finance. In and out went some who had long since arrived at the top, some who were still groping about the bottom, and others hoping to ascend—both radiantly luminous and somber, gloomy individuals. As in an odd masquerade there entered: young and old, poor and wealthy, healthy and frail, lofty and lowly, merry and morose, happy and unhappy, saucy and shy, cheerful and sad, attractive and hideous, polite and impolite, glorious and shabby, respected and despondent, the proud and the imploring, the famous and the unknown, along with faces, gestures, and figures of all genres.
Art exhibitions are known to have as their goal the advantageous display of works of art and the attracting of buyers. The secretary plays the role of intermediary or go-between, facilitating communication between artists and their extensive, art-infatuated public. It is his task to ensure that a goodly number of bargains are definitively struck, that pictures are industriously sent out the door to buyers. Persons expressing interest in these works might appear on the scene only to swiftly vanish from sight again, unfortunately for good. The secretary must be attentive, as the most unimposing man can unexpectedly prove to be a connoisseur and buyer.
For a time I imagined myself to be exceedingly skillful at the art trade. Unquestionably I was splendidly suited to taking leisurely hackney-cab rides upon pleasantly lively, bright, glittering streets and to spending half and whole hours merrily chatting with jolly artists’ wives. Spirited evenings at the club regularly showed me in top form. I was a master at passing about platters heaped with delicacies, and was a frequent and enthusiastic visitor to and encourager of female painters. In such and similar respects, I acquitted myself gloriously. After the fact, however, I reached the conclusion that I cannot have been a particularly valuable, clever, prudent, and successful secretary for paintings. Specialists in the field were on several occasions seen to shrug their shoulders at the extent of my accomplishments. The head of the firm seemed to find it appealing to speak with his functionary above all on the subject of poetry and the like.
A stately successor soon reduced me to a predecessor and provided me with an occasion to lay down my post, resign my position, delicately make way, and charmingly busy myself elsewhere. Thinking poorly of me or feeling resentful because he had made so bold as to presume talents in me that I did not in fact possess was something that would never have occurred to my benefactor. To demonstrate that he was still of a mind to remain well-disposed toward me, he invited me, with a turn of phrase both courteous and jovial, to join him for supper.
1917
Frau Bähni
“Come with me, we’ll go visit Frau Bähni,” the potentate Bösiger said to me. At the time I was something resembling Bösiger’s favored protégé. He no doubt found it agreeable to consort with me because I was inexperienced. My innocuousness gave him a sort of pleasure, and the infelicities I now and then displayed made him laugh. It’s well known that powerful, influential gentlemen like to spend time in the company of people who have no importance at all. In those days, I was playing the role of youthful novice in the circles that set the tone, i.e., the world of culture, intellect, and elegance. I would turn up here and there, advantageously or not, and was collecting my first experiences of society. In the salons, by the way, as I soon discovered, I had not the slightest success, and perhaps it was precisely this circumstance that secured me Bösiger’s favor. It was impossible for him to see me as a rival. Later, though, he reconsidered his view of me, and in time he began to be taken aback by my behavior, and that was the end of his patronage.
We got into a hackney cab and together rode through the densely populated streets of the capital to the home of beautiful Frau Bähni, who lived in the most elegant, posh, desirable part of town. She was at home and received us most courteously. It was three in the afternoon, a rainy day. Much of what I have experienced in the wide world has vanished completely from my head over the years, but I still vividly recall Frau Bähni, and the afternoon hour I am describing here impressed itself on me and remains an indelible memory. Frau Bähni’s husband maintained extremely close business ties to capitalist Bösiger. She herself was strikingly beautiful. Her appearance and person always produced a stir, and she laid claim to a certain renown as a figure worthy of admiration. She held and retained this fame for a relatively long time. As for her apartment, I must confess that I’ve never seen a prettier abode. Frau Bähni greeted us with the most courteous and endearing smile, and her beautiful, majestic face seemed to express the most vibrant joy.
She pressed our hands in turn and then with what appeared to be the greatest amiability invited us to enter the parlor. Bösiger, by the way, had always assured me that Frau Bähni was an enigma. “She’s frightfully clever, and yet I don’t fully believe in her cleverness,” he’d said. Bösiger had a reputation for being both a witty and a domineering, violent person. There was a time when people compared him to Napoleon. His boldly enterprising nature and his ruthless drive were legendary. When he entered the home of Frau Bähni, whose beauty he was forced to acknowledge and who seemed to make a deep impression on him, it was with the expression of a person tormented by all sorts of spleen. He appeared to be a bit awkward and self-conscious and to be aggrieved at this circumstance. Frau Bähni sat down at the piano and began to play, and I had the strange impression that she was playing music primarily because she felt a need to calm her nerves. A conversation had not yet arisen. The two of us, or perhaps all three, feigned a sense of comfort that in truth was nonexistent and a pleasure none of us felt. Bösiger wrinkled his forehead. Frau Bähni interrupted her playing and with defiant coldness in her large, beautiful eyes approached her adversary. I began to realize that the two of them had been preparing for this hostile encounter for quite some time, and I was extremely curious to hear the words that would be uttered by these two persons who now stood facing each other like two adversaries on the field of battle. Something like a drama was beginning to unfo
ld. I took a good look at Bösiger, who sat there stiffly, and I could see quite clearly by the various small signs he was giving that he found himself in a state of extreme agitation. The elegant, cold smile he saw fit to place upon his lips was askew. At this moment he was almost ugly. His clever, interesting face that was usually almost handsome was contorted and pale. Apparently he was fighting an exceptionally difficult internal battle. People who are spoiled suffer terribly when their self-love is dealt a blow. Frau Bähni clearly had the advantage over him, and this appeared to be something that Bösiger could under no circumstances tolerate.
“I love you,” he said in a constrained, forced voice. “I don’t wish to hear anything of the sort,” she replied. “You are the most beautiful woman in the world, and I worship you,” he said. “Please do stop,” she unsparingly countered. She gazed at him directly, penetratingly, all merciless distrust. It was clear that she did not attribute to Bösiger’s words even the slightest credibility, or else she was being political and found it appropriate to feign disbelief. “Here the veil is being lifted on a daredevil liaison,” I whispered to myself, at pains to be as quiet as a mouse. “So you refuse to be friendly to me. You thrust me away. You slice my fondest hopes to ribbons, and it means nothing to you to trample on my heart. Warmth leaves you cold, and on friendship you place no value. You are treating me with intentional frostiness, heartlessly rejecting all closeness and familiarity. Faced with the tenderness I feel for you, you do not bat an eyelash. Either you are indifferent or you are obstinately making a show of indifference. You are tormenting, martyring me, and it gives you pleasure to see me so distraught. This is not good, and I would like to know how I have merited such unfriendliness.” —To this outpouring of openness from a man whom she would not previously have thought capable of candor, her only response was: “It is inappropriate for you to speak in this way.” The capitalist and man of influence was trembling with fury. In fact he had not yet been the least bit candid. I sensed this, but at the same time I sensed that Frau Bähni had not yet spoken candidly either. No one speaks the truth here, in these circles that set the tone for society at large. —Perhaps a word of truth is out of the question, if only because people here are too clever and are acquainted with thousands of truths and untruths. The knowledge of human nature is too rich, the treasury of experiences in fact already too replete. In a sense, speaking the truth presupposes a certain narrow-mindedness.
“You know,” Bösiger said, rising from his chair, “that I can bring harm to your husband and therefore also, of course, to yourself, and can do so in such a way that no one will be in a position—a position I would find unfortunate—to accuse me of ignoble intentions. There are means and ways, my lady, to make things quite unpleasant for your husband. The power to force you to hear my suit and attach to my assurances the belief and importance they require is within my grasp. Your and your husband’s interests and therefore also your prudence must surely counsel you not to breech this friendship.” This language was quite clearly being dictated by ardent hatred, for Bösiger was generally a man of good taste and culture. He was visibly made to suffer by what his passion was forcing him to say. Frau Bähni’s breast heaved tempestuously, she held her hand to her violently pounding heart yet maintained a flawless composure and with admirable serenity responded as follows: “Herr Bösiger, you go too far. Certainly you can cause dire harm to my poor husband, I am quite aware of this, but I also know that I have the lovely right to suppose that we shall have the strength to endure the consequences of your revenge. And I hardly think that your revenge, regardless of how methodically you engineer it, will succeed in entirely destroying my husband and me. I am not afraid of you and what you will do, for I assume that all of us without exception are, in the end, frail human beings, for which reason I am inclined to presume that there are limits to your power and your importance. You will comport yourself as you see fit, and you will always be a welcome guest here as soon as you display the sort of civilized behavior customary when associating with women who enjoy a certain status in society. I hope that by tomorrow morning you yourself will despise these threats you have uttered.”
A bell rang outside, and a moment later Herr Bähni entered. Courteous greetings were exchanged as if nothing at all had transpired. Bösiger rose to the occasion with an utterly astonishing display of ingenuousness and conviviality. He demonstrated talent in the truest sense and proved to be the most splendid confabulator. I felt sincere admiration for him. He was utterly in control and also showed himself in the best light. He sparkled with witticisms, and Frau Bähni found herself compelled to listen to everything he said with the utmost curiosity.
1916
Full
So many times, as I rode through the streets and hubbub of Berlin in the quaint, lumbering, and yet buoyantly plodding horse-drawn omnibus, which never failed to invigorate and charm me anew, I would hear the aging, good-natured conductor humbly and humorously uttering a single insignificant and yet also at that moment quite significant word, which in addition, by the way, was written for the sake of correctness and order upon a panel that could be either concealed or displayed. When the inscription
FULL
was hanging tidily and properly in its place, people knew that for the time being no one else would be allowed to climb and clamber aboard because the gondola or pleasure palace rolling along on its wheels was already packed suffocatingly full, a regrettable circumstance that was announced in no uncertain terms by the warning placard: “Stop! Whosoever they may be, this line they shall not cross!” At times, however, despite the rejecting, dismissive plaque, there would be a crowd pressing forward, expressing the impetuous desire to climb up and be carried off. And then someone, such as the chamberlain on duty, would say in a courteous voice, “Folks, we’re full up,” or he would say, “No shoving, please. It won’t do any good,” or perhaps it would occur to him to say, “With the greatest pleasure, ladies and gentlemen, would I invite you to climb aboard and take your seats, but it is my harsh duty to draw your attention to the fact that the car is already stuffed to the cracks with passengers. I do beg your pardon for having to deny you access and entry.” Sallies and attacks on one side, rebuffs and refusals on the other, the vessel continues to sail calmly and gaily through all the metropolitan traffic, which almost resembles an ocean. Once again some hasty hothead is about to leap aboard, and once again an imperturbable “Full!” resounds in the daredevil’s ears, whereupon he is obliged to circumspectly remove his foot from the footboard once more.
Once when the omnibus was cruising full steam ahead, everything proceeding smoothly and properly, and with no one even remotely plotting an ambush or violent coup, someone slipped aboard—a person who apparently had been accustomed from an early age to go through thick and thin and strike down anyone and anything that got in his way.
“Full up, sir,” the official remarked.
“Stupid, ridiculous nonsense,” replied Monsieur Dreadnought. He was without a doubt the sort of person who thought it advisable to engage in the most ruthless power politics. “I beg your pardon, did you not hear what I said?” the good carman inquired. But now a veritable downpour of invectives was unleashed upon his unfortunate head. This powerful flood of unforeseen unpleasantnesses was so overwhelming that the good man was forced to give in. All the same he complained, saying:
“It’s just not right, not right at all, and it’s a good thing not all people are like this gentleman who’s cursing me even though all I did was tell him we were full. It was my duty to tell him so, but certain people insist on trampling and flattening everything once they’ve made up their minds to do something. I don’t go around saying ‘full’ for my own amusement, or because I want to antagonize people, or out of Schadenfreude. Every person has his tasks to perform and his duties to fulfill, and it just happens to be my duty to tell people ‘full’ when the car is full up. It isn’t fair for a person to take offense like that. It’s downright preposterous how quick some peo
ple are to fly into a rage. Well then! I’ll stick with the ones who have some sense; thanks and praises be to God, there are still some of them left.”
This is what the conductor said as the omnibus unhurriedly trundled on its way.
1916
Horse and Woman
Let me not forget to write down two small memories from my stay in the metropolis. One concerns a horse’s head, the other an old, poor match-seller. Both these things, the horse and the woman, are surrounded by night. One night, as on so many others that had already been frittered away and poured out into oblivion, I was roaming through the streets in my elegant, though admittedly only borrowed overcoat, when at one of the busiest spots I beheld a horse harnessed to a heavy cart. The horse was standing there quietly in the indefinite darkness, and many, many people were hurrying by, passing the beautiful animal without paying it even the slightest heed. I too was hurrying past, I was in a big rush. A person whose ambition it is to go in search of amusement is always in a terrible hurry. But struck by the marvelous sight of the white horse standing in the black night, I stopped in my tracks. The long strands of hair hung down to the animal’s large eyes from which a nameless sorrow peered out. The horse stood there unmoving, as if it were a white, ghostly vision just arisen from the grave, displaying a humility and patience that spoke of majesty. But I was drawn on; after all, I was in search of amusement. Another night, too, found me out and about in pursuit of the most wretched entertainment. I had already passed through all sorts of public houses when I turned onto an unlit street, and then a shout came to me from the darkness: “Matches, young sir!” It was an old, poor woman who had cried out thus. I stopped short, for I happened to be filled with heartfelt good spirits, reached into my vest pocket to find a coin and gave it to the woman without taking any of her wares. How she thanked me then and wished me good fortune in the dark future. And how she held out her old, cold, gaunt hand to me! I took her hand and pressed it, and then, happy at this small experience, continued on my way.
Berlin Stories Page 10
