The Sleepwalkers

by Hermann Broch

  Of course it could be objected that the general style of the age embraced indifferently all the disparate value-systems, that the personality of Luther, for instance, was by no means ascetically limited to one single system, but strikingly united in a characteristic fashion both religious and worldly impulses. In return it could be just as reasonably asserted that we are dealing here with the mere beginnings of a movement that needed five hundred years for its full development, that the age was still full of yearning for the medieval synthesis, and that it was precisely a personality like Luther’s, a personality subsuming in itself the most disparate tendencies, not by force of logic but by virtue of its human breadth, that met the needs of the age half way, and dominated and influenced it to an incomparably greater degree than the more “logical” Calvin. It is as if the age were still full of fear in face of the new “severity” and the approaching dumbness of the world, as if it wanted to shout down that dreadful approaching dumbness, and for this reason, perhaps, had to bring to birth the new language of God, the new polyphonic music. But these are assumptions that cannot be proved. On the other hand it can be taken for granted that this uncertain state of the age, this confusion of inchoate impulses, made possible the Counter-reformation; that the fear of approaching loneliness and isolation opened the way for a movement which promised to regain the lost unity. For the Counter-reformation took upon itself the gigantic task of gathering in again the value-systems excluded by the narrow and ascetic religiousness of Protestantism, of attempting a new synthesis of the world and all its values, and, under the guidance of the new Jesuit scholasticism, of once more striving towards the lost medieval wholeness, so that, enthroned as the supreme value, the Platonic unity of the Church might maintain for ever its divine position above all other values of the world.

  CHAPTER LVI

  The watchmaker Samwald often came out to the hospital now. He lingered at the places where his brother had been tended, and, wishful to show his gratitude, not only regulated the clocks of the hospital free of cost, but also offered to repair gratis the inmates’ watches. And then he went to see Gödicke of the Landwehr.

  Gödicke looked forward to these visits. Since the funeral many things had become clearer and less disturbing to him: the earthly part of his life had become more solid, and yet it seemed to be growing loftier and airier, without losing any of its stability. He knew now quite clearly that he need no longer be terrified at the looming darkness behind which stood that other Gödicke, or more precisely the many Gödickes of yore, for that dark barrier was nothing but the period during which he had lain in the grave. And should anyone come up and try to remind him of what was on the other side, of what had happened before his burial, he need no longer have any fear, but could, as it were, dismiss it with a shrug of the shoulders, knowing that it had ceased to be of any consequence. All that he had to do was to bide his time, for he need not dread the life that was condensing round him now, even when it pressed quite close upon him; for he had already put death behind him, and everything that came would simply serve to build the scaffolding yet higher. True, he still did not utter a word, nor did he listen when the sisters of his ward-mates addressed him; but his deafness and dumbness were now far less a defence of his ego and his solitude than an advertisement of his contempt for those who disturbed his peace. The watchmaker Samwald was the only one he tolerated, indeed he looked forward to his coming.

  Samwald certainly made things easy for him. Even though Gödicke walked with his body bent, leaning on his two sticks, he could look down on the little watchmaker; but that was not what mattered most. More important was the fact that Samwald, as though he knew whom he was dealing with, made not the slightest attempt to question him or to remind him of anything that he, Ludwig Gödicke, did not like. In truth Samwald was not a great talker at any time. As they sat together on a seat in the garden he would show Gödicke a watch that he had taken over for repair, making the cover fly open so that one could see the works, and trying to explain where the defect lay. Or he would speak of his dead brother, who, so he said, was to be envied, for he had got over his troubles and was now in a happier land. But when the watchmaker Samwald went on to speak of Paradise and its heavenly joys, on the one hand that was to be discountenanced, for it pertained to the confirmation class attended by a long-discarded Ludwig Gödicke, yet on the other hand it was a sort of homage to the man Gödicke, like a question addressed to one who was already on the farther side and knew all about it. And when Samwald spoke of Bible gatherings which he was in the custom of attending and from which he derived much enlightenment, when he maintained that the misery of this war must finally lead to a brighter day of salvation, Gödicke did not bother to listen; yet it was vaguely a kind of corroboration of his new-won life, and a challenge to take up in that life a fitting and as it were a postmortem position. The little watchmaker seemed to him then like one of the lads or women who carried the hods of bricks to the wall, and whom one never talked to civilly but merely ordered about, yet whom one needed nevertheless. This too may have been the reason why he once interrupted the little watchmaker in his stories with the order: “Bring me a beer,” and when the beer did not promptly arrive he stared in front of him in incomprehending indignation. For many days he was angry with Samwald and refused to look at him, and Samwald racked his brains trying to find some way of propitiating Gödicke again. That was difficult enough. For Gödicke did not himself know that he was angry with Samwald, and he suffered a great deal from the fact that under the compulsion of an unknown decree he had to turn his face away whenever Samwald appeared. And it was not that he regarded Samwald as the originator of the decree; but he blamed him most bitterly for the fact that the decree was not rescinded. It was a sort of laborious search for each other that arose between the two men, and it was almost an inspiration of the watchmaker’s when one day he seized Gödicke by the hand and led him away.

  It was a fine warm afternoon, and the watchmaker Samwald led Gödicke the one-time bricklayer by the sleeve of his tunic, cautiously, step by step, taking care to avoid the jagged flint-stones on the road. Sometimes they rested. And when they had rested for a while Samwald tugged at Gödicke’s sleeve, and Gödicke got up and they went on again. In this way they arrived at Esch’s house.

  The ladder leading up to the editorial office was too steep for Gödicke, so Samwald deposited him on the bench in front of the garden and ascended alone: he came back presently with Esch and Fendrich. “This is Gödicke,” said Samwald. Gödicke made no sign. Esch led them towards the summer-house. But in front of the two forcing frames, whose glass covers were open, for Esch had been sowing for the autumn crop, Gödicke remained standing, gazing into their depths at the bottom of which lay the brown mould. Esch said: “Well?” But Gödicke still went on staring into the frames. So they all remained standing, bareheaded and in their dark suits, as though they were gathered round an open grave. Samwald said: “It was Herr Esch who started the Bible class … we are all seeking guidance from Heaven.” Then Gödicke laughed, he did not laugh scornfully, it was only perhaps a somewhat noisy laugh, and he said: “Ludwig Gödicke, arisen from the dead,” he did not say it very loudly, and he looked triumphantly at Esch, more, he straightened himself from his humble and bowed posture and was almost as big as Esch. Fendrich, who carried the Bible under his arm, regarded him with the feverish eyes of a consumptive, and then he softly touched Gödicke’s uniform, as though he wished to make certain that Gödicke was really present in the flesh. But for Gödicke that seemed to finish the matter, he had done his part, it had not even been a very great strain, he could afford to rest now, and so he simply let himself down on the wooden edge of the frame, waiting for Samwald to sit down beside him. Samwald said: “He’s tired,” and Esch went with long strides back into the courtyard and shouted up to Frau Esch at the kitchen window to bring some coffee. Then Frau Esch brought out coffee, and they fetched Herr Lindner too from the printing-shed to drink coffee with them, and they stood round
Gödicke while he sat on the edge of the frame, and gazed at him sipping his coffee. And none of them saw what Gödicke saw. And after Gödicke had been refreshed by the coffee Samwald once more took him by the hand, and they set out on their way back to the hospital. They went cautiously, and Samwald saw to it that Gödicke did not step on the jagged flints. Sometimes they rested. And when Samwald smiled at his companion, Gödicke no longer turned his eyes away.

  CHAPTER LVII

  Yes, Huguenau was in a very bad humour. The printed appeals for the Iron Bismarck had been wretchedly botched. That the printing-office did not possess a block of Bismarck’s head was perhaps excusable, but not even a proper Iron Cross with laurel wreath complete was to be found in the place, and so there had been nothing for it but to embellish each of the four corners of the appeal with one of the little Iron Crosses usually employed to mark the death notices of soldiers killed in the war. He wouldn’t have gone personally with the miserable sheet to the Major at all if he hadn’t had a piece of good news as well: a firm of carvers in Giessen, whose advertisement he had discovered and to whom he had immediately wired, were prepared to supply a Bismarck statue within two weeks. But naturally enough the Major must have been deeply disappointed by the tasteless appeal; at first he had not even listened to Huguenau, and had dismissed his excuses with an ill-humoured and indifferent: “It doesn’t matter.” And even though he had finally condescended to fix his visit for to-day, yet he had spoilt it immediately by inquiring after Esch. That was all the more unjust, seeing that Esch himself was to blame for the lack of decent blocks in the printing-office.

  His hands in his trousers-pockets, Huguenau strolled up and down the courtyard and waited for the Major. As for Esch, he had manœuvred him out of the way quite nicely. It had been quite a sly move to dissuade him the day before from going out to the paper factory—and then to-day one found that it had been a mistake after all, and that strangely enough there was a shortage of paper, and so the Herr Editor had just had to go. Unfortunately the lout had considered it necessary to take his bicycle, and if the Major put off coming for very much longer the whole manœuvre would be up the spout, and the two of them would meet after all.

  It was a warm sultry day. Huguenau looked now and then at his watch, then he went into the garden, surveyed the fruit, which hung on the branches still unripe, and estimated the crop. Well, in these times things would never be allowed to ripen; long before that everything would be stolen. One fine morning Esch would find his garden cleared out. It wouldn’t be long either; on the sunny side the plums were already reddening, and Huguenau put up his hand and tested the fruit between his fingers. Esch should put barbed wire round his garden; but the crop was certainly not worth so much expense. After the war barbed wire would be cheap enough.

  Waiting is like barbed wire stretched inside one. Huguenau looked once more up into the branches, blinked up at the grey clouds; where the sun should be they brightened to a dazzling white. He whistled for Marguerite several times; but she did not appear and Huguenau became annoyed; of course she was down at the river again with those boys. He felt inclined to go and fetch her. But he had to wait for the Major.

  Suddenly—he was just on the point of whistling for her again—Marguerite stood before him. He said severely: “Where have you been hiding again? There’s visitors coming.” Then he took her hand, and crossing the courtyard they went through the entry hall to the street and kept watch for the Major. I sent Esch off too soon, Huguenau could not help telling himself again and again.

  At last the Major appeared round the corner; he was accompanied by the aged commissariat officer, who also filled the rôle of adjutant to the Town Commandant. Although Huguenau had reckoned on having the Major to himself, he felt nevertheless flattered that the visit should take such an official form. Really it had been stupid to let Esch go, the whole staff should have formed up in line and Marguerite in a white dress should have presented a bouquet of flowers. In some way or other Esch was responsible for this omission too, but there it was, anyhow, and Huguenau’s ceremonial fervour had to be confined to a few low bows when the two officers stopped in front of the house.

  Fortunately the commissariat officer said good-bye at the door, so that the occasion ceased to be official and became private, and when the Major crossed the threshold Huguenau fairly shone with affability and devotion. “Marguerite, make a curtsy,” he commanded. Marguerite stared into the strange man’s face. The Major ran his fingers through her black curls: “Well, won’t you say how do you do, little Tartar?” Huguenau apologized: “It’s Esch’s little girl.…” The Major raised Marguerite’s chin: “So you’re Herr Esch’s daughter?” “She’s only staying here—a sort of foster-child,” Huguenau said. The Major stroked her curls again: “Little black Tartar,” he repeated as they passed through the entry to the courtyard. “French by birth, Herr Major … Esch intends to adopt her eventually … but that’s unnecessary, she has an aunt in any case … wouldn’t Herr Major like to see the printing-office straight away? please step this way, to the right.…” Huguenau ran in front. “Very well, Herr Huguenau,” said the Major, “but I should like to say good-day to Herr Esch first.” “Esch will be here in a few minutes, Herr Major, I thought that the Herr Major would like to look over the printing-shop first without being disturbed.” “Herr Esch does not disturb me in the least,” said the Major, and Huguenau was dashed by his somewhat sharp tone. Esch must have been intriguing somehow … well, he would soon get on his track yet and then there would be a full-flavoured secret report number 2. And because such a report was a certainty, Huguenau felt reassured, for no one can endure this inner stream of events to be held up or dammed by external forces. And so Huguenau said formally: “Herr Esch unfortunately had to go to the paper factory … I had to make sure that the paper would be delivered … but perhaps the Herr Major would like to inspect the printing-shop meanwhile.”

  The press was set in motion in honour of the Major, and in honour of the Major Huguenau quite gratuitously had a section of the appeal for “The Moselle Memorial Association” run off. He still held Marguerite by the hand, and when Lindner drew off the first sheets of the appeal, Huguenau lifted the uppermost one and held it out to the Major. He felt compelled to apologize once more: “It’s a very simple make-up, I’m afraid; at the very least it should have had a proper Iron Cross with a laurel wreath … in a matter under the immediate patronage of the Herr Major.”

  The Major had put up his hand to the Iron Cross at his buttonhole and seemed reassured to find it still hanging there. “Oh, the Iron Cross—you don’t need another, surely that would be superfluous.” Huguenau bowed: “Yes, the Herr Major is quite right, in such difficult times a modest make-up will have to do, I can only agree with the Herr Major there, but a modest little block wouldn’t have added much to the outlay … of course that’s a matter of indifference to Herr Esch.” The Major did not seem to have heard. But after a while he said: “I think, Herr Huguenau, that you do Herr Esch an injustice.” Huguenau smiled politely and a little scornfully. But the Major was not looking at him, but at Marguerite: “I would have taken her for a Slav, this little black Tartar girl.” Huguenau felt called upon to mention once more that the child was French by birth. “She only comes here.” The Major bent down to Marguerite: “I’ve a little girl like you at home too, she’s a little bigger, it’s true, fourteen … and not as black as a little Tartar either … her name is Elisabeth …” and after a while he said: “So, a little French girl.” “She can only speak German,” said Huguenau, “she’s forgotten everything.” The Major asked: “And do you love your foster-parents very much?” “Yes,” said Marguerite, and Huguenau was astonished that she could tell such a lie, but as the Major seemed absent-minded he repeated distinctly: “She stays with her relations.” The Major said: “Driven from home …” that really sounded somewhat absent-minded, he was an old gentleman after all, and Huguenau said in corroboration: “Quite true, Herr Major, the right phrase, driven f
rom home.…” The Major looked at Marguerite attentively. Huguenau said alluringly: “The case-room, Herr Major, you haven’t seen the case-room yet.” The Major passed his hand over the child’s brow: “You mustn’t look so cross, you mustn’t wrinkle up your brow like that …” the child considered earnestly and then said: “Why not?” The Major smiled, passed his fingers lightly over her eyelids, under which the hard eyeballs rested, smiled and said: “Little girls mustn’t have furrows on their brows … that’s a sin … hidden and yet visible, that’s what sin always is.” Marguerite recoiled and Huguenau remembered how she had broken away from Esch; she was quite right, he thought. The Major now passed his hand over his own eyes: “Well, it doesn’t matter …” and Huguenau felt that the Major too was struggling to break away, though with feeble powers, and he was actually glad when he saw Esch on his rather too low bicycle, which made him look bandy-legged, riding into the courtyard and springing off by the outside ladder.

  They all went into the courtyard to greet Esch; the Major stood between Huguenau and the little girl.

  Esch leant his bicycle against the wall beneath the ladder and went slowly up to the group. He showed no trace of surprise at finding the Major there, so little surprise did he show and so calmly did he greet the guest, that Huguenau began to suspect that this lean schoolmaster already knew of the visit. So he gave vent to his ill-humour:

  “What do you say to this unexpected honour? Aren’t you even surprised?”

  “I’m very glad,” said Esch.

  The Major said:

  “I’m very glad that you’ve returned in time, Herr Esch.”