The Sleepwalkers

by Hermann Broch

  But the passenger out yonder on board the ship does not know that we have been anxious for him. He scarcely notices the undulating ribbon of the coast, and only when he vaguely divines the yellow ray of the lighthouse is he aware that there are those on land who are anxious for him and think of his danger. He does not understand the danger that in fact encompasses him, he is not conscious that a great mountain of water separates him from the sea-bottom that is the earth. Only the man who has an aim fears danger, for he is afraid of failure. But the passenger who walks on the smooth planks that run round the deck like a racing-track, and that are smoother than any path he has yet trod, the passenger on board ship has no aim, and can never complete his destiny; he is closed within himself. All his potentialities lie asleep. One who loves him can love him only for what he promises to be, for all that lies within him, not for what he will achieve or has achieved; he will never achieve it. So men on shore know nothing about love and mistake their fears for love. The sea-passenger, however, soon comes to this knowledge, and the threads that were spun from him to those on shore are broken before the coastline sinks out of sight. It is almost superfluous for the bandmaster to try enlivening melodies upon him, for the passenger is content to let his hand slide over the smooth brown polish of the railing and its glittering brass rings. The shining sea lies stretched before him; he is at peace. Mighty engines drive him on, and their humming shapes a path that leads nowhere. The eye of the passenger at sea is a different eye: it is the eye of an orphaned man that recognizes us no longer. He has forgotten what was once his daily task; he believes no longer in the correctness of addition sums, and if his way should take him past the telegraph operator’s cabin and he should hear the ticking of the apparatus, he marvels maybe at the mechanism, but cannot convince himself that the operator is receiving messages from the land and sending messages to the land; indeed, if he were not a sober-minded man he might think that the operator was speaking to the cosmos. He loves the whales and the dolphins that play round the ship, and he has no fear of the icebergs. But if a distant coastline should come into sight he refuses to look at it and perhaps takes refuge in the belly of the ship until it has vanished again, for he knows that it is not love that awaits him there, not loose-footed freedom, but taut anxiety and the straight walls of his aim. For he who seeks love seeks the sea; he may perhaps speak of the land that lies beyond the sea, but he does not mean what he says, for he thinks of the voyage as endless, the voyage that nourishes in his lonely soul the hope of expanding and opening itself to receive that other who emerges free as air from the light haze and enters into him, that other whom he rightly recognizes as a potential, unborn immortal.

  It is undeniable that none of these reflections occurred to Esch, although he remained obsessed by the thought of emigrating to America and taking the book-keepers of the Central Rhine Shipping Company as fellow-passengers. But whenever he came into Herr Oppenheimer’s office he studied long and minutely the Kaiserin Augusta Viktoria as she clove the waves.

  He had resumed his former life, occupied his old room, and often took his midday meal at Mother Hentjen’s. He used his bicycle with zeal, but his daily routine took him now to Herr Oppenheimer’s instead of to Sternberg & Company. Frau Hentjen had acknowledged the change in his vocation with a look that, in spite of her detachment, showed a blend of something like contempt, dissatisfaction, and perhaps even a hint of scorn, and although Esch had to admit that her concern was justified—indeed, maybe because of it—he exerted himself in painting to her in rosy colours the prospects and advantages of his new profession. He partly succeeded. Though she turned a deaf ear to his bold accounts of the greatness on the threshold of which he was now standing, and which would spread not only to America but over all the continents of the world, yet the compound of glittering riches, artistic success and joyous travel with which he tried to dazzle her, this destiny which another was to achieve and not herself, this far-flung greatness aroused the envy of the woman who had loathed for fifteen years the sordid narrowness of her fate. She was filled, one might say, with a kind of malicious admiration, for while on the one hand she maintained obstinately that his ambitions were hollow and unattainable, on the other she surpassed him in fantastic invention, gave him high-sounding advice, and encouraged him to think that he might rise to become the Chief or, as he said, the Chairman, of the whole gang of artists, performers and managers. “First of all they must be brought under severe order and discipline,” he used to reply, “that’s what they need most.” Yes, he was convinced of that, and this profound contempt for artists was founded not merely on his distaste for Gernerth’s greasy notebook and Oppenheimer’s chaotic office, but coincided so closely with Mother Hentjen’s principles that in one such moment of admiring assent—a world-embracing principle often debouches into a domestic triviality—Frau Hentjen granted his request to entrust her bills and accounts to his proficient supervision: she granted it with a condescending smile, as if fully persuaded that her simple books were kept in the most sensible and model manner. But scarcely had Esch bent himself over the columns when Mother Hentjen cried that he needn’t put on such a superior air; she wasn’t by any means impressed by his smattering of book-keeping; he had much better turn his attention to the theatrical business, which needed looking after much more than hers. And she snatched the books from him.

  Yes, the theatrical business! With the casualness of his profession Oppenheimer was accustomed to accept lightly the accidents of chance, and although the persistence of Esch left him defenceless, he laughed over this man who came every day on his bicycle and behaved as if he were a partner in the firm; but he put up with it on learning that Esch was bringing new capital into the wrestling scheme, and even swallowed the insults that Esch daily flung at the disorder in his office. They had jointly bargained with the proprietor of the Alhambra Theatre for its lease during June and July, and since Esch’s zeal for work had to be appeased, he was empowered to recruit the lady wrestlers.

  Esch, experienced as he was in drinking dens, brothels and girls, was the very man for this job. He combed out all the establishments, and whenever he found likely girls who were willing to enter the lists, he wrote down their names and qualifications in a notebook which he had himself ruled and spaced, and in which he did not omit to enter after each name, in a special column headed by the business-like word “Observations,” his judgment on the capabilities of the candidates according to a rough-and-ready classification. He was especially partial to girls with foreign-sounding names and of foreign race, for it was to be an international wrestling tournament, and the only ones he excepted were the Hungarians. It was often good enough fun trying the girls’ muscles, and sometimes even their stalwart charms seduced him. None the less he did not really enjoy his task, and when he spoke of it to Mother Hentjen in a disparaging and casual manner he was quite sincere: he could no longer regard such an occupation as compatible with his dignity, and he much preferred to sit at Oppenheimer’s vacant desk or to inspect the Alhambra.

  He often betook himself there, traversing the empty grey auditorium in which one’s steps echoed on the floor-boards, and crossing the teetering planks laid over the well of the orchestra up to the stage, whose gigantic, naked grey walls were almost too overpowering for the flimsy screens of the wings that would soon cover them. When he measured the stage with long strides it was as if in triumph because no more knives were to be hurled across it, and when he peeped into the managerial office it was to wonder whether he couldn’t already install himself there. He reflected, too, that he must show Frau Hentjen round his new kingdom. The air was oddly grey and cool, although the beer-garden outside was glowing in the heat of the bright sun, and this self-contained kingdom of dusty strangeness was like a remote island of the unknown within a world of familiar things, it was a promise and an indication of all the strange potentialities that lay in wait across the great grey sea. In the evening, too, he often repaired to the Alhambra. But then the beer-garden was illumin
ated, and a band played on the wooden platform under the trees. The theatre lurked dark and almost unnoticed behind the lights, filled to the very roof with darkness, and one could not imagine how spacious and well arranged it was. Esch liked coming at such a late hour, for he found it pleasant to think that it was reserved for him and for no other to reawaken the life within that dark building.

  When Esch visited the Alhambra again on one of the following mornings he found the proprietor playing cards with friends at the bar. He joined them and they played until late in the afternoon. By that time Esch felt his face vacant and wooden, and was aware that the life he was leading exactly resembled that in the Mannheim warehouses during the strike. It only needed Korn to come along and boast about Ilona’s love-making. What was the sense of his having given up his job in the Central Rhine Shipping? Here he was frittering away his time in idleness, using up his money, and he had not even avenged Martin. If he had stayed in Mannheim he could at least have visited Martin in jail.

  At supper he accused himself of having deserted Martin shamefully, but when Frau Hentjen replied that every man must look out for himself, and that Herr Geyring, who had been warned often enough by her, could not expect a friend of his to stay in Mannheim for his sake and give up a brilliant career, he flew into a rage and abused her so vehemently that she took refuge behind the buffet and fingered at her hair. He paid his bill on the spot and left the restaurant, infuriated because she had extolled his idleness as a brilliant career. He did not, however, admit to himself that that was the cause of his anger, but merely denounced her for cold heartlessness towards Martin, and he spent the whole night in brooding over ways and means of helping Martin.

  Early in the morning he betook himself to Oppenheimer’s office. He had procured writing materials for himself and spent the whole morning in composing a savage article in which he made it clear that that deserving union secretary, Martin Geyring, had fallen a victim to a diabolical intrigue between the Central Rhine Shipping Company and the Mannheim police. This article he carried forthwith to the editorial office of the Social Democratic People’s Guardian,

  The building in which The People’s Guardian had its headquarters was no palace of journalism. Not a single marble vestibule or wrought-iron gate. In general it was not unlike Oppenheimer’s office, only that it was much busier; but on Sundays, when the newspaper world was on holiday, it would be the exact double of his. The black iron railings of the staircase were sticky to the touch, the peeling, shabby walls bore the traces of frequent pictorial activity, and from a window one looked out on a small courtyard in which stood a dray loaded with rolls of paper. Printing machines were at work somewhere with asthmatic rattlings. One entered the editorial office through a door that had once been white and banged ruthlessly because its lock did not fit. Instead of an insurance calendar there was a timetable on the wall, instead of dancers’ portraits a photograph of Karl Marx. Nothing else was different, and his incursion here seemed all at once so wholly superfluous that even his article, which had sounded powerful and sinister, suddenly appeared lame and superfluous too. The same crew everywhere, thought Esch with fury. The same crew of demagogues, living everywhere in the same disorder. It was a waste of time to put a weapon into the hand of any of them. In their hands it would droop ineffectually, for not one of them knew the ins and outs of anything.

  He was directed to a second room. Behind a table that might have once been covered with cloth sat a man in a brown-velvet jacket. Esch gave him the manuscript. The editor skimmed it over hastily, folded it, and laid it in a basket beside him. “But you haven’t read it,” said Esch sharply. “Oh yes, I know what it’s about … the Mannheim strike; we’ll see if we can use it.” Esch was amazed at the man’s lack of curiosity about the article, and at his assumption that he knew all about it already. “Excuse me, these are facts that put the strike in an entirely new light,” he insisted. The editor picked up the manuscript, but laid it down again immediately. “What facts? I saw nothing new in it.” Esch felt that the other was trying to display his omniscience. “But I was an eyewitness; I was at the meeting!” “Well, our confidential agents were there too.” “Have you made it public, then?” “As far as I know there was nothing special to make public.” Esch was so astounded that he simply sat down on a chair, although he had not been asked to do so. “My dear comrade,” the editor went on, “after all you can’t expect us to wait until you choose to pitch in your report.” “Yes, but,” Esch was completely bewildered, “but why haven’t you done something, then? Why do you let Martin,” he corrected himself, “why do you let Geyring sit in jail though he’s innocent?” “Oh, that’s it? … all honour to your sense of justice,” the editor glanced at the manuscript which bore Esch’s name, “Herr Esch, … but do you really think we could get him out as easily as that?” He laughed. Esch was not to be put off with laughter: “It’s the other side that should be in the lock-up … that was more than evident to anyone who was there!” “So you think that we should have the directors of the Central Rhine Shipping jailed instead of Geyring?” What a nasty laugh, thought Esch, and remained silent. Have Bertrand locked up? Why not Bertrand as well as Nentwig? After all, in the sober light of day there wasn’t such an enormous difference between the chairman of a company and a Nentwig, except that the Mannheim chairman was something better than Nentwig, and the lock-up wouldn’t be good enough for him. Absently he repeated: “Have Bertrand locked up.” The editor laughed more than ever. “That would just about put the lid on it.” “And why?” asked Esch with irritation. “He’s a decent chap, friendly and sociable,” explained the editor amiably, “a first-class man of business, the kind of man one can get on with.” “So you can get on with a man who’s hand in glove with the police?” “Heavens above, of course the employers work with the police; if we were on top we’d do exactly the same.” “And you call that justice?” said Esch indignantly. The editor raised his hands in amused resignation. “How can we help it? That’s how justice is organized in the Capitalist State. Meanwhile a man who takes the trouble to keep his concerns going is of more use to us than one who simply shuts up shop. If you got your way and all the employers who are against us were put in jail we’d have an industrial crisis, and we’d get a lot of credit for that, wouldn’t we?” Esch repeated with obstinate anger: “All the same, he should be locked up.” The editor’s mirth became more and more irritating. “Ah, now I see what you’re getting at: you mean because he’s a sodomite?…” Esch pricked up his ears, the editor became still more genial, “that bothers you, does it? Well, I can set your mind at rest on that point: he only does it down in Italy. And anyhow a gentleman like him isn’t so easily nabbed as a Social Democrat.” So that was it: cushioned chairs, silver lackeys, equipages, and a sodomite, and Nentwig could run about and do what he liked! Esch stared the mirthful editor in the face: “But Martin’s locked up!” The editor had laid down his pencil and opened his arms a little: “My dear friend and comrade, neither of us can alter events. The strike in Mannheim was sheer stupidity, and the only thing we could do was to let things take their course and pocket our discomfiture. We can only be glad that Geyring’s three months is good propaganda material for us. Many thanks for your article, my dear fellow, and if you ever have something else for us bring it sooner next time.” He shook Esch by the hand, and Esch, in spite of his resentment, achieved an awkward bow.

  June was approaching. Esch did Oppenheimer’s errands to the printers and the poster-designers; everything was ready, and bold advertisements on pillars and hoardings informed the town that the strongest women of all the nations would be assembled in Cologne to try their strength; and the list of names appended would have convinced any sceptic: there was Tatiana Leonoff, the Russian champion, Maud Ferguson, winner of the New York Championship, Mirzl Oberleitner, holder of the Viennese Cup, to say nothing of the German representative, Irmentraud Kroff. The names for the most part were fanciful inventions of Oppenheimer, who found the girls’ real names
too tame and insipid. Esch had vainly striven against this piece of deception; had he taken all the trouble to find genuinely international girls simply for a Jew to mess about with their names? He took it as a fresh symptom of the anarchical condition of the world, in which no one seemed to know whether he was on the right or on the left, in the van or in the rear, and where it was ultimately of no importance whether Herr Oppenheimer called a person by this name or that; one had even to be thankful that Oppenheimer hadn’t thought of a Hungarian name. Hungary had no business to exist, anyway, and it was equally unseemly for Oppenheimer to have included Italy in the list of competing nations. Was it so certain that there were women there at all? Italy seemed to be a haunt of sodomites. Still, he was not displeased as he regarded the placard with all its international names: the different countries stood shoulder to shoulder, and that whole world was in a sense his own creation, an earnest and a promise for his future career. He brought one of his posters into Mother Hentjen’s and without asking permission pinned it up on the wooden panelling beneath the Eiffel Tower.