The Glory of Life

by Michael Kumpfmüller

  Franz is disappointed, but not too badly; it is years since he either saw or heard from Hardt. She can’t say much about the story. She feels sorry for the ape, she says. Isn’t it terrible that he had to turn into a human like us? She wonders how he can think up such stories. Even the ape’s name, Red Peter! What do his parents think of the story of the ape? They have heard it read aloud too, they wrote to say so, but it wasn’t like the occasion in Berlin where every seat in the hall was taken. In Prague they seem to have been almost the only members of the audience.

  What Franz fears most is his mother’s visit. The fever comes and goes, he can live with that, but what will it be like, for heaven’s sake, when his mother is here in the apartment? Unfortunately it seems that plans have been made some time ago; he has an uncle who wants to make sure that the right thing is done for him, he has sent quite a large sum of money for unexpected expenses, and for that very reason there is no preventing it now. Franz groans; for him, it is a nightmare, because once the members of his family are in Berlin they will try to get him away from here, while Dora can see the bright side of a visit from them. After all, she could get to know his mother at last, and discuss with her the best thing to do.

  Listen, she says, it’s just a few days. She says it again and again. In bed in the evening when he is asleep, when she believes in herself. Listen. It’s not bad, whatever happens, all the stupid things that, sad to say, she can only whisper, why everything has been decided from the first, in her mind anyway, whatever happens to you.

  Just before the move he wrote to an aunt living in a place called Leitmeritz. Only now has she answered, unfortunately not in a very friendly tone, obviously because she thinks he and Dora want to come and stay with her. In fact all he asked was whether she would ask around and see if there might be a place for them in that area, two or three furnished rooms in a villa, an apartment as self-enclosed as possible.

  Apart from that, not much is happening.

  He lies in the sun in his rocking-chair, with the window open, writing to his parents, telling them he hopes he can venture to sit on the veranda soon.

  He lies in bed, leafing through his notebooks, shaking his head over what he has written in the last few weeks. Only a meagre yield. She cannot really console him. He blames himself for not trying hard enough, spending all these long hours in bed. But you’re ill, she says, you were ill even in December, don’t you remember? He won’t hear of it. He has dawdled half his life away, why did that never strike him before? Like a child, he says. However, children go out into the world, they leave their beds, while with me it’s the other way around: instead of going out into the world I hide away, more and more, under bedclothes of some kind.

  He has sent his family the new telephone number, on condition that he is not expected to answer the phone himself.

  He is thin; every time he gets up you can see how weak he is. She has more or less given up cooking, she buys fruit, she brings him buttermilk, she brings him her mouth, and sometimes a newspaper.

  One by one they all phone, first Elli, then Ottla. His mother. The telephone is downstairs in the hall, so that you can’t really talk intimately: she is freezing, she begins to tremble if she is on the phone for any length of time. It is easiest with Elli. She isn’t very close to her, so she can gloss over the situation; of course it is not ideal, the new apartment is a little noisy, not quite as comfortable as the last one. It is cold, they hardly go out of doors at all, she admits, and yes, Franz is well, even if he is in bed because he has a temperature – in reality it is a high fever. Talking to Ottla, she admits to the fever. Franz has lost weight, he is weak, she is doing all she can. To which Ottla says: I’m sorry, the two of you were so happy. She tries cheering her: in December the fever went away again but there was still great cause for concern, Berlin clearly doesn’t do him any good. She doesn’t blame Dora, as if it were her fault, for on the contrary she has personified his happiness from the first.

  In the evening, when she sits beside his bed, sewing or watching over his sleep, she asks herself who he really is. Is he what she sees, a man sick with a fever, the man she lives with, the man who kisses her, reads aloud to her – the comical tale of the ape, and now and then a letter when he is writing to his parents and acting as if nothing was wrong. He has turned to the wall, so she cannot see his face, but she knows that recently there has been something she doesn’t know in it: a glow, she feels, but not the same kind as the one she saw on the night when he woke her. This time, she thinks, it is the illness. Yet until now she has hardly thought of the illness, as if it were an earlier lover, something that is his, and she is not jealous of it. She cannot quite pinpoint her idea, cannot even say that she is afraid, she merely registers it, and takes care not to draw any premature conclusions.

  11

  Of course there are things that he misses, but less painfully than he thought: the walks that were more like adventures through these huge amounts of snow, the movement, the light. For weeks the city has seemed as far away as the moon. But for a change he gets up, because Rudolf Kayser of the Neue Rundschau literary magazine has come to see him in snowy Heidestrasse, and can hardly believe his eyes. By now the doctor is used to seeing visitors alarmed at the sight of him. He is lying on the sofa and offers his hand to the obviously dismayed Kayser, says something about last night, which really was nothing to speak of, the last few days have been nothing to speak of, but he makes an effort, smiles, says he is really feeling very well, people are so kind to him. As usual Dora has made a light lunch, and he admits that he couldn’t survive in Berlin without Dora, indeed he almost makes a declaration of love for her in front of this stranger who, to the doctor, is like a messenger from a world that has disappeared. The discussion is lively, they talk about books, the theatre, mutual acquaintances, but as if it were a world now gone for ever, which in the long run the doctor does not like. Is he so infirm already? Dora talks about the ups and downs of the last few weeks, mentions the episode of the candle ends. In the circumstances he does not think he has to talk about his work, but he is wrong; Kayser asks about it, the doctor is evasive, says it is not worth speaking of, which only makes matters worse, for now Kayser begins praising him, talks about the couple of texts that have been published. He knows an astonishing amount about his writing, as he walks around the room he quotes the passage from The Stoker where young Rossmann sees the Statue of Liberty, and then takes his leave with best wishes to the doctor.

  As always after a visit of any length, he stays in bed the next day, which does not mean that he fails to get up in the morning and shave himself, studying his face in the bathroom mirror for a while. By now he looks almost like a child, it cannot be clearer that he is ill, but the striking aspect is the expression on his face; it is as if he had spent half his life growing to look like a crumpled schoolboy, only, once he had reached that stage of development, to grow backwards into a child again.

  He doesn’t know what Dora thinks. She does not tell him how she sees him, probably because it is too obvious, because she thinks she mustn’t make him uneasy, as if what they had not discussed didn’t exist. For instance, his suits no longer fit him, everything is hanging off him, even his underclothes are loose. His outdoor shoes most likely won’t fit him. But when did he last wear outdoor shoes? Even his head seems to have shrunk. He knows that your ears go on growing into old age. However, he is not going to grow old. He has thought that ever since he could think at all. He will die young, in a state roughly like his present one, without gaining the slightest wisdom.

  Not for the first time, he wonders what will be left of him. He has written three novels that amounted to nothing, a few dozen stories, and in addition he has written letters all his life, mainly to women who were not in his proximity, letters and more letters, saying nothing but why he wasn’t with them and did not live with them.

  He feels weak, worn down, and at the same time determined. He has already wondered whether to ask Dora to destroy this or that, t
he scribblings of the last few months, all but the last two stories. Perhaps he hasn’t written his real stories yet, perhaps all that still lies ahead of him once this terrible winter is over, once he has his strength back, wherever he may be then.

  At least the weather is stable. He can sit on the veranda and let Dora spoil him; she takes care to see that he is wrapped in his rug. She brings him the post, something to eat, a glass of milk or fruit juice, and then he looks at her affectionately, almost as if he is relaxed, until four in the afternoon when she comes in with the postcard announcing his uncle’s visit. What is it? she asks, and he says, realising at once that this is the end: They’ve sent my uncle. That evening he writes to his parents complaining, says he is astonished, although in fact he is furious and trying to defend himself. Their concern is unfounded, he writes, there is nothing to interest his uncle in Zehlendorf, the place is not worth such a long journey.

  He arrives the next day. If they had not lost his telephone number in the move, perhaps the journey could have been prevented at the last minute, but as it is things take their course. The doorbell rings early in the afternoon, and not five minutes later his uncle has given his verdict. The doctor urgently needs to take a course of treatment, Berlin is poison, he must go somewhere else as quickly as possible, he must go to Davos, to the mountains, but anyway, for heaven’s sake, he must leave Berlin. Dora asks him to sit down, but Franz’s uncle is not to be diverted from giving his good advice. Looking round the apartment in a desultory way, he inspects it as if in passing, although later he says it is really comfortable, rather a poor sort of place, but not as bad as Franz’s parents fear.

  After that the sanatorium question is discussed no further. Franz’s uncle is angry about the prices here but full of praise for the city itself, and goes for several long walks, from the magnificent Potsdamer Platz by way of Leipziger Platz to Alexanderplatz; in the Café Josty he eavesdrops on two anti-Semites whose sheer stupidity can be read in their faces. So much for his first impressions. He imagines matters to be worse than they are; the fact is that he likes Berlin, including Heidestrasse, and tries several times to persuade Dora to accompany him to the theatre. A young woman like her needs to mix in company. He asks about her family, how she comes to be in Berlin, about her life before Franz. Once, when she has gone out for a moment, Franz’s uncle claps him appreciatively on the shoulder; that girl of his is really charming, he says, so full of concern, so brave, so modest.

  The uncle is staying in a bed-and-breakfast place, so he does not turn up until after the mid-morning snack known as a second breakfast. On the third and last day of his visit he is in a better mood than ever; a joint postcard is written to Franz’s mother, his uncle’s considered opinion of the city is not so bad, he says, Franz is very well looked after in Zehlendorf. But there is still a lingering suspicion because of the journey. That evening Dora goes with Franz’s uncle to a reading given by Karl Kraus, whom the doctor does not particularly esteem, but never mind, Dora is delighted and has a wonderful time, even later, after midnight when they are sitting in an empty bar, and she goes over the alternatives with Franz’s uncle once again.

  Taking his leave, the uncle tells Franz: You know you can’t stay here. That’s not what you want, I can well understand it, but I’m afraid there’s no alternative. Look at yourself, he says, look at Dora, she thinks the same as I do. All things considered this is not a good moment, his uncle looks anxious, while Dora just nods, disappointed, exhausted but also, it seems to him, relieved. As if she has only just realised what a burden on her he is.

  At the last moment the doctor gives his promise. He will leave Berlin, with a heavy heart but a tiny sliver of hope left. Perhaps they just have to wait. We must be patient, says Dora, I have all the patience in the world, only to count up at once the reasons why it isn’t possible and why she doesn’t mind going anywhere. A little while ago she was talking to Judith on the telephone. Whenever she talks to Judith on the phone she gets new courage, she says, it doesn’t matter where they are. Judith thinks the same, and sends Franz her warm regards.

  Robert has written, sending a slab of chocolate. He ought to reply at once, saying thank you, but in this state of indecision answering is out of the question. Some snow falls at about midday, later the sun comes out. He ventures onto the veranda, not for very long, baffled rather than oppressed, with a growing sense of uselessness.

  Next morning he turns to his papers. He lies in bed, reasonably cheerful, and then asks her or rather tells her exactly what she is to bring him, what she will find: the notebooks, letters, loose sheets of paper. The good part of this is that she simply does it. She seems surprised because it comes out of a clear blue sky, but then she does it. He can hear her searching, the rustle of paper, a drawer opening and closing at an interval of a few minutes. He has the two stories with him at his bedside, he hasn’t looked over them again, but everything else can go. It’s useless stuff, he says, now and then you have to throw ballast overboard. Doing it all at once like this is more than he intended; it takes a surprising amount of time. Dora is kneeling in front of the red-hot stove, throwing piece after piece of paper into it, and has to wait for a moment so as not to stifle the fire while he looks at her bent back and the soles of her bare feet. Only when she has finished does she ask why. Is it a good idea? I mean, for you too? And he says yes, I think so, relieved, purified, so to speak, even if he doesn’t have most of it here. The old diaries are with M., and the rest in his room in his parents’ home.

  Overnight they have discussed what Dora is to do if he goes into a sanatorium. She must stay near him, visit him, and find a room, a room in woodland surroundings where he can walk and enjoy the spring sunlight on a bench. She says that now she is almost glad. His uncle was very much in favour of Davos, but that is all the same to her, she won’t stop being glad of every day they have. Now, at breakfast the next morning, he was able to tell her that he is thinking of another story, if not in detail. Yesterday, when she slept late, it was a kind of balance sheet, again something with animals in it, about music and singing, how it all hangs together. Perhaps she will take it as a good sign, he thinks, and indeed she is delighted that he has plans, life goes on, even in Prague, maybe – speaking the difficult Czech version of the name for a change – because if needs be he would even go to Prague with Dora.

  12

  It is as good as certain that they will leave Berlin, and yet there are still happy moments; in the afternoon when she slips into bed with him; when he eats something; his glance, his gratitude, although it is for her to feel grateful; his feet and how they always turned to walk in her direction on those first afternoons in Müritz. She isn’t going to despise the days still left to them here just because Franz and she may have to go away, because they are days spent with him, part of their life together. She doesn’t like to leave the house, and tries to do her shopping somewhere close, but there are not many shops in the vicinity, so she has to go some way, and always fears she’s not sure what when she comes back after an hour away and hears him; she will know how he is from the sound of his voice.

  He has been coughing worse than ever for several days. She has not yet really learnt to interpret his coughing, but she makes up for that now; these are real attacks of coughing and sometimes go on for hours, morning and evening alike. Franz always sends her out of the room and coughs into the little bottle. He doesn’t want her to see what he does with the results, and it always seems to be full. Once, when she asked about it and caught a glimpse of the bottle as well, he was almost angry. His temperature has settled at around 38 degrees, but he’s not afraid of that, he says; he is lying in the sun on the veranda, and all he is afraid of is the sanatorium.

  Davos is the centre of attention again. Franz asked if they could go together by way of Prague. A sanatorium in the Vienna Woods is briefly considered; the family are doing all they can to find something suitable for him. As always, Franz has doubts about the expense, but she won’t hear of it. Don’
t you think you’re worth it? You are worth anything to me. When she gets up in the morning she spends a long time deciding what to wear for him, and stands in the bathroom putting a little rouge on her cheeks, just enough for him not to notice it.

  Franz has asked what she would like for her birthday. He is coughing so much that he can hardly speak for minutes on end, even when he is walking about, because when it is very bad he gets up and tries to walk, slowly, taking small steps while the attack of coughing shakes him. He dismisses her concern – not now, this is too stupid, he conveys to her, and tries to smile, although it is more of a grimace.

  He has been coughing half the night, so they are worn out on her birthday. But she puts on her green dress, because he always says that brings Müritz back to him. He says how enchanting she looks in it, and adds that it makes him think of her mother, because but for her mother he wouldn’t have her now. For her sake he tries to eat, would like her to get flowers for herself, and she does indeed go out in the middle of the day and buy a bunch of daffodils. When she comes back he is seriously ill. He sleeps and she sits beside the bed and feels his hot forehead; he begins to talk, says confused things but does not sound as if he were in torment. Briefly, he wakes up, smiles, and is then immersed in the illness again.