The Sleepwalkers

by Hermann Broch

  He again made his round of the dens and brothels, and if he sometimes felt a slight twinge of conscience in doing so, it was only because Frau Hentjen, if she should find out, would never believe that he devoted himself to such a task out of mere business considerations. So, as a kind of proof of his erotic indifference, as a moral though quite preposterous alibi, he extended his business researches to include the homosexual resorts, resorts which hitherto he had avoided almost apprehensively. Yet he felt vaguely that there must be another reason for his desire to visit them. What took place in them should have left him quite unmoved, and it was really queer, the horror that overcame him when he saw these men dancing with each other, cheek pressed against cheek. Then he could not help thinking of his first visit to one of those filthy dens when he was a mere lad at a loose end in the world, a lad who could scarcely remember his mother, and how he had felt that he wanted to run away to her the first time that he had caught sight of a male prostitute, tightly laced and in long skirts, singing obscene songs in a falsetto voice. If he forced himself to gaze at such abominations again, considering that the sight of them almost made him vomit, Mother Hentjen would be compelled to realize, in spite of her prudishness, how little pleasure he got out of his job. God knows, he would rather run to her than haunt such places, searching for he knew not what, as if he were looking for his lost innocence. Quite preposterous to think that one might run up against, say, the chairman of a company, for these street boys were certainly beneath the notice of a man like that. All the same, with such a queer lot one had to be prepared for anything. And as in venturous situations one exercises self-control, Esch did not bash in the painted mugs of these little manikins when they spoke to him; on the contrary he was on his best behaviour, treated them to sweet liqueurs, asked how they were getting on and—if they became confidential—inquired also into their source of income and the names of their kind uncles. True, he wondered sometimes why he listened to all their chatter, but he pricked up his ears when the name of Chairman Bertrand was mentioned; then the vague picture that he carried in his mind of that great man, a picture scarcely legible and yet larger than life-size, acquired gradually more colour, took on strangely tender hues, and became at the same time a little smaller as it grew more sharp and definite. Bertrand, it seemed, sailed up and down the Rhine in a motor-yacht, and his crew were very handsome; everything on this dream-boat was white and blue; once he had come to Cologne and little Harry had had the great honour of finding favour in his eyes; they had gone as far as Antwerp in the fairy yacht and in Ostend had lived like gods; but usually he was too grand to pay any attention to the kind of boys that came here. His castle stood in a great park in Badenweiler; deer grazed in the meadows and strange flowers scented the air; he stayed there when he was not in distant lands; nobody had entry to his castle, and his friends were Englishmen and Indians of fabulous wealth; he owned a motor-car, and it was so huge that one could sleep in it at nights. He was richer than the Kaiser.

  Esch almost forgot his own work, so powerfully was he possessed by the desire to find Harry Köhler; and when he succeeded, his heart beat so fast and he bore himself so respectfully that one might have imagined he did not know that the small youth was little better than a street boy. He forgot his hatred, forgot that Martin had to suffer so that this lad might lead a fine life; yes, he felt almost jealous because to this boy who was accustomed to fine and well-to-do company he could not offer anything better than a visit to the wrestling performance, which, however, he affably put at Herr Harry’s disposal. But the boy, not in the least impressed, simply refused with a disgusted “Pah!” so that Esch felt ashamed of having suggested anything so unseemly; yet as he felt annoyed too, he said rudely: “Well, I haven’t a yacht to invite you to.” “How? What do you mean by that?” was the suspicious, yet strangely gentle reply. Alfons, the fat, blond musician, who was sitting coatless at the table in a gaudy silk shirt with rolls of fat beneath it that looked like a woman’s breasts, laughed, showing his white teeth: “He means—you know what yourself, Harry.” Harry looked offended: “I hope you don’t intend to insult anyone, my dear sir.” God forbid, Esch replied glibly, that was far from his thoughts; he was only sorry because he knew that Herr Harry was used to finer things. With a smile of gentle resignation Harry waved his hand languidly: “That’s past.” Alfons patted his arm: “Never mind, my boy, there’s lots here willing to comfort you.” Harry shook his head in gentle melancholy: “One can only love once.” This fellow talked like Lohberg, thought Esch, and he said: “That’s true.” For although the Mannheim idiot wasn’t very often right, in this case he seemed to be right, and Esch said again: “Yes, that’s true.” Harry was obviously pleased to find one who understood him, and looked at Esch gratefully, but Alfons, who did not want to hear such sentiments, became indignant: “And all the friendship we offer you, Harry, means nothing to you?” Harry shook his head: “What does the little scrap of intimacy amount to that you call friendship? As if love had anything to do with friendship and intimacy!” “Well, my boy, you have your own views of love,” said Alfons tenderly. Harry spoke as though from memory: “Love is great distance.” While Alfons replied: “That’s far too deep for a poor devil of a musician, my boy,” Esch could not but think of Frau Hentjen’s silence. The band was making a great din, and Harry, leaning over the table so as not to have to shout, said mysteriously and in a low voice: “Love is a matter of distance; here are two people, and each is on a separate star, and neither can know anything of the other. And then suddenly distance is annihilated and time is annihilated, and they have flown together, so that they have no separate awareness of each other or of themselves, and feel no need of it. That is love.” Esch thought of Badenweiler; of a remote love in that remote castle; something of the kind was perhaps preordained for Ilona. But while he was still brooding over this, a pang of rage and pain darted through him at the thought that never would he be able to discover whether it had been with this noble form of love or another that Herr and Frau Hentjen had loved each other. Harry continued as if he were reciting a verse from the Bible: “Only in a dreadful intensification of strangeness, only when the strangeness has become in a sense infinite, can the miracle happen, the unattainable goal of love: the mystery of oneness … yes, that’s how it is.” “Prosit!” said Alfons glumly, but to Esch it seemed that this boy had been given knowledge of higher things, and the hope awoke in him that that knowledge might also hold the answer to his own questions. And although his thoughts were by no means in harmony with those which Harry had expressed, he said, as he had once said to Lohberg: “But in that case one could not go on living after the other,” and he was filled with the half-joyful, half-bitter assurance that the widow Hentjen, seeing that she was still alive, could not have loved her husband. Alfons whispered to Esch: “For Heaven’s sake, don’t say such things before the boy,” but he was too late, for Harry looked at Esch in horror and said tonelessly, just a trace more tonelessly than necessary: “I’m not really living now.” Alfons pushed across a double glass of liqueur to him. “Poor fellow, ever since that affair he’s talked like this … that man completely turned his head.” Esch felt himself jerked back into reality; he put on an innocent air: “Who?” Alfons shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, him, the Lord God himself, the angel of purity …” “Hold your jaw, or I’ll scratch your eyes out,” panted Harry, and Esch, who felt sorry for the boy, said imperiously: “Leave him in peace.” Suddenly Harry broke out into hysterical sobbing: “I’m not really living now, I’m not …” Esch felt rather helpless, for he could not employ here the methods which he was accustomed to use with girls when they cried. So that man had ruined this boy’s life too, it seemed; Esch wanted to do something to comfort Harry and said abruptly: “We’ll shoot this Bertrand for you.” Harry screamed: “You’ll do nothing of the kind!” “Why not? You should be pleased; he’s earned it.” “You shan’t, you shan’t do it …” the boy panted, glaring at him “… don’t you dare to touch him.…” Es
ch was irritated at the boy for so stupidly misunderstanding his good intentions. “A swine like that must be put away,” he persisted. “He’s not a swine,” Harry said beseechingly, “he’s the noblest, the best, the handsomest man in the world.” In a sense the boy was certainly right, one couldn’t injure such a man. Esch was on the point of giving his promise. “Hopeless,” said Alfons dejectedly, drinking up his liqueur. Harry had leant his head between his hands, and nodding like an image he began to laugh: “Him a swine! Him a swine!” then his laughter suddenly changed into sobs again. When Alfons made to draw him to his fat, silken breast Esch had to interpose to prevent a fight. He told Alfons to clear out, and then turned to Harry: “Let’s go. Where do you live?” Quite passive now, the boy obeyed him, and named his address. When they reached the street Esch took his arm as if he were a girl, and the one providing, the other accepting protection, they felt almost happy. A light wind was blowing from the Rhine. Before his door Harry clung to Esch, and seemed about to offer his face to be kissed. Esch pushed him through the door. But Harry slipped out again and whispered: “You won’t do anything to him!” and before Esch knew what was happening the boy had embraced him, awkwardly kissed his sleeve, and vanished into the house.

  The attendance at the wrestling performances was palpably falling off, and something had to be done in the way of publicity. Without consulting the others, Esch decided on his own responsibility to persuade The People’s Guardian to insert a report. But before the dingy white door of the editorial office he recognized quite clearly that once more it was something else that had led him here. In itself this visit was quite meaningless and futile; the entire wrestling business had become indifferent to him, for it was not achieving anything even for Ilona, and so something more significant, more decisive, must be done for her, and he saw clearly too that The People’s Guardian would not insert a report now, if they had omitted to do so hitherto because of some proletarian prejudice or other. Fundamentally the attitude of the Socialist paper was praiseworthy: at least it knew its right hand from its left, and drew a clear-cut distinction between the bourgeois and the proletarian points of view. One should really draw Mother Hentjen’s attention to such strength of character: she might no longer disdainfully dismiss these people, who, although ordinary Socialists, yet condemned the wrestling business as much as she did herself, and she might no longer look askance at Martin either for being a Socialist. Esch was brought up with a start when he thought of Martin; the devil alone knew what he, August Esch, was doing here in this place! but it was clear that it had no connection with the wrestling. He was still brooding over this while he entered, and not until he was forced to jog the editor’s memory by mentioning the strike—for the editor, most unflatteringly, had failed to recognize him—not until then did it dawn on Esch that he had come here on Martin’s account. He said abruptly: “I have an important piece of news for you.” “Oh, the strike!” with a wave of the hand the editor reduced that event to triviality, “that’s ancient history.” “Indeed!” replied Esch angrily, “but Geyring is still in prison.” “Well? He got three months, didn’t he?” “Something has got to be done,” Esch heard himself saying in a louder voice than he had intended. “Well, don’t shout at me like that—I didn’t lock him up.” Esch wasn’t a man to be put off by such words. “Something has got to be done,” he persisted grimly and impatiently, “I know some of the customers that your fine Herr Bertrand associates with … and they’re here in Cologne, not in Italy!” he added triumphantly. “We’ve known that for several years, my dear friend and comrade. Or is that the piece of news you wanted to tell us?” Esch felt stunned. “Well, but why don’t you do something, then? He’s put himself in your hands.” “My dear fellow,” said the other, “you seem to have somewhat childish ideas of things. All the same you ought to know that we live in a civilized country.” He waited now for Esch to take his leave, but Esch did not move, and so for a while the two men sat opposite each other, not knowing what to make of each other, not understanding each other, and each seeing only the other’s naked moral unsightliness. Red spots of anger appeared on Esch’s cheeks, and faded again into tan. The editor was once more wearing his light-brown velvet jacket, and his slightly plump face with the brown, drooping moustache was at once soft and strong like the velvet of his jacket. A slight trace of coquetry lay in this correspondence, reminding Esch of the finicking attire of the youths at the homosexual resort. He became aggressive: “So you’re shielding that homosexual of yours, are you? And Martin can do time for it, for all you care?” He twisted his mouth into an expression of disgust, showing his strong teeth. The editor became impatient: “Look here, my dear sir, what business is it of yours anyway?” Esch grew red in the face: “You deliberately hinder anything that might get him out … you wouldn’t print my article; you shield the scoundrel that got him thrown into prison, this Bertrand … and you, you give yourself out as a guardian of freedom!” He laughed bitterly. “With you freedom is in safe keeping!” A fool, evidently, thought the editor, and so he replied quietly: “Look here, technically speaking it’s quite impossible for us to publish as news something that you bring us weeks and months too late; it’s just …” Esch jumped up. “You’ll get news that you don’t like from me yet,” he shouted, rushing out and slamming the dingy white door behind him, which, however, did not remain shut, but went on banging.

  When he reached the street he stopped aghast. Why had he blazed up like that? Could he alter the fact that these Socialists were swine? Once more Frau Hentjen had proved to be right in scorning the whole crew of them. “The corrupt Press,” he kept on saying to himself. And he had gone there with the best intentions too, had wished to give them an opportunity to justify themselves in Frau Hentjen’s eyes. Things as they were and things as they ought to be began anew to get entangled in a most exasperating confusion and chaos. Only one thing was certain, that the editor had behaved like a swine, firstly by his general attitude, and secondly because he sought to shield this Bertrand with all the resources of a corrupt Press, yes, a corrupt Press. And this chairman fellow himself was a proper swine, although the boy Harry would not admit it, and there was nothing one could do to put a stop to him. On the other hand what the boy had said about love was quite right. Nothing was simple! at most only one thing had come out clearly: Frau Hentjen could not have loved her husband; she must have been forced into marriage with that swine. And as Esch’s thoughts filled with hatred of the world around him, and of the swine who should be done in, as such swine deserved, he began more and more definitely to hate the chairman Bertrand, to hate him for his blasphemies and his crimes. He tried to picture Bertrand sitting in a comfortable chair after dinner in his castle, surrounded by luxury, a fat cigar in his hand, and when that elegant figure at length emerged as from a cloud of tobacco smoke, it was somewhat like that of a dandified snippet of a tailor, strongly resembling the portrait of Herr Hentjen which hung over the mantelpiece in the restaurant.

  For Mother Hentjen’s birthday, which was duly celebrated every year by the regular customers, Esch had hunted out a small bronze Statue of Liberty, and the gift seemed to him ingenious, not only as hinting at their American future, but also as a happy pendant to the Schiller statue, with which he had scored such a success. At midday he put in an appearance with it.

  Unfortunately the present failed of its effect. If he had handed it to her in dead secrecy she might have appreciated the beauty of the sculpture, but the panic fear into which any public familiarity, any sign of intimacy, threw her, so blinded her that she evinced but little delight, nor did she become any warmer in her manner when he apologetically added that the statue would probably go well with the Schiller monument. “Well, if you think so …” she said non-committally, and that was all. Of course the new present, too, would have served very well to embellish her room; but to show him that he must not flatter himself that he was entitled to claim such a privileged position for everything he brought her, and to prove to him once an
d for all that she still upheld the inviolateness of her room, she went upstairs and fetched the Schiller monument, and planted it along with the Statue of Liberty on the mantelpiece beside the Eiffel Tower. There were now collected the bard of freedom, the American statue and the French tower, as symbols of an attitude which Frau Hentjen did not share, and the statue stretched its arm upwards, stretched its torch upwards towards Herr Hentjen. Esch felt his gifts desecrated by Herr Hentjen’s gaze, and he would have liked to ask that the portrait at least should be removed; yet what help would that have been? this restaurant in which Herr Hentjen had worked would remain the same, and it was almost more to his liking that everything should remain frankly and honestly where it was. Why try dishonestly to conceal something which it was impossible to conceal! And he made the discovery that what drew him here was not merely the excellence of the food dispensed to him under the eyes of Herr Hentjen, but that he also needed Herr Hentjen in some mysterious way as a strange and bitter seasoning to his food; it was the same inescapable bitter dose that he accepted in Mother Hentjen’s moroseness, and that made him feel bound inescapably to her when she morosely whispered to him, as now, that he could come that night.

  He spent the afternoon in lascivious thoughts of Mother Hentjen’s matter-of-fact love rites. And once more he was tortured by that matter-of-factness, which contradicted so blatantly her customary aversion. In whose nightly embraces could she have contracted those habits? A hope in which he himself did not believe faintly dawned, promising that all this would fall away once they were in America, and the comfort of this hope mingled with the excitement which now came over him when he felt her house-door key in his pocket. Esch took out the key, held it in the palm of his hand, and felt the smooth metal of the handle. True, she had refused to learn English, but the wind of the future blew once more through the streets. The key to freedom, he thought. The cathedral rose grey in the late twilight, iron-grey soared the towers, and a breath of the new and the unfamiliar fanned them. Esch counted the hours until night. It was more important to hunt out girls for the South American journey than to go to the Alhambra. Five full hours, then he would be at the house door. Esch saw the alcove, saw her lying on the bed; and the thought of stealing in to her, the thought that at the touch of his aroused body her body would palpitate, made his breathing difficult and his mouth dry. For even last week, as during all the weeks before, she had received him in dull impassivity, and although that brief involuntary palpitation was insignificant in itself, yet it was a point at which the immense dead-weight of habit had been quickened, a tiny point, it was true, and yet a virginal one, and that was a herald of hope and of the future. And to Esch it seemed dishonourable to enter prostitutes’ resorts on the evening of Mother Hentjen’s birthday, so he betook himself to the Alhambra.