The Sleepwalkers

by Hermann Broch

  Much, therefore, of what is generally ascribed to the sheer inexhaustibility of a youth’s unfolding powers and to its purposeless yet purposeful exuberance is really nothing else than the naked fear of the creature that has begun to die in realizing its own loneliness; a child rushes to and fro because in so many senses it is wandering about at the beginning of its course; the laughter of a child, so often censured by adults as idle, is the laughter of one who sees himself surprised and mastered by loneliness: so it is not only comprehensible that an eight-year-old may decide to go out into the world in an extraordinary, one might almost say, an heroic and final attempt to concentrate her own loneliness and conquer within that the greater loneliness, to challenge infinity by unity and unity by infinity—not only is that comprehensible, but it is also comprehensible that in an enterprise of this kind the motives influencing her will be neither ordinary nor weighed by ordinary standards; a mere butterfly, that is to say a thing of such little weight that it cannot come into consideration at all, may have a determining influence on the whole course of her adventure—for instance, let the butterfly that has fluttered for some time ahead of her suddenly leave the path to vanish across the marshes, and it is only in the eyes of an adult that that will seem irrelevant, for adults cannot see that it is the soul of the butterfly, not the butterfly itself, and yet itself, that has deserted the child. She comes to a stop; she takes her hand from her hip and with a wild swoop doomed beforehand to failure she tries to catch the creature that is already far away.

  She does, indeed, continue on her original path for some time. She comes almost to the great iron bridge that carries across the river the main road from the east towards the town. The path by the shore which she has been following would here climb up the road embankment and cross it to descend on the other side. But the child does not get so far as that. For in face of the familiar bridge with its grey lattice-work that cuts the black pine-forest into multitudinous black rectangles when one looks through it, a sight that has always terrified her, and of the surprising and apparently unending familiarity of the country, she now quite suddenly decides to leave the valley. No sooner thought than done. And even although when she wandered off from home she may have hoped that what was familiar and homelike would vanish only gradually, merging almost painlessly, as it were, into what was strange, yet the painfulness of this sudden farewell to the valley is drowned in her strong desire to cross to the other side of the marsh, to where the butterfly vanished.

  It is only a moderately high bluff that rises over there, but it is high enough for the child to see nothing of the house on its summit save the roof, and nothing of the trees that grow there save their tops. Perhaps her most sensible course would be simply to tackle the ascent from the main road. But her impatience is too great: under the bright blue sky, that cool-warm sky of the Indian summer, under the rays of the sun that burn her back, she begins to run; she runs along the edge of the marsh looking for a ford or a raised path, the narrowest of paths will do; but while she is searching she has run right round the marsh and is already at the foot of the hill, just as if the hill had run to meet her like a camel and was kneeling down for her to climb up on it. This twofold haste, her own and that of the hill, is a little uncanny, and she really hesitates now that she is about to set foot on the imperceptible swell that marks the transition from the flat marshland to the steep hill. If she now lifts her head the farmhouse up there has quite vanished from sight and only a few tree-tops are visible. But the higher she clambers the more the little settlement up there grows to meet her eye, first the trees in their rich green as if spring were calling to her, then the roof from which the chimney rises like a candle, and finally the white walls of the house gleam through the trees: it is some kind of farmhouse set in a very green garden, and the last slope, so steep that she scrambles up on all-fours, is likewise so green that she advances her arms until she is stretched flat on her belly, her face in the grass, and only then slowly lets her knees follow.

  Now that she is really at the top and the farmyard dog barks and tugs at his chain, the springtime she hoped to find is wanting. The landscape, indeed, is strange and unfamiliar, and even the valley, into which she now casts a glance, even that is no longer the valley out of which she came. A twofold transformation! a transformation that is certainly heightened by melancholy, but none the less is not decisive, for the transformation can be attributed to the change in the light: with that swiftness peculiar to autumn the clear purity of the light has become opaque and milky, and the whitening shield of the sky looks down on another sky, for the valley is beginning also to fill with cloud that is equally white. It is yet afternoon, ah, yet afternoon, but the evening of strangeness has already invaded it. Far into the infinite distance stretches the road on which the farm is set, and in the quickly mounting cold the butterflies droop and die. And that is decisive! She is suddenly aware that there is no fixed goal for her, that her casting about and seeking for a goal has been in vain, that only the infinite distance itself can be a goal. The child does not formulate this thought, but she answers with her actions the question she has not posed, she flings herself into the strangeness, she flees along the road, she flees along the road that stretches without end, she loses her wits and cannot even weep in her breathless race that is like a suspension of movement between the moveless masses of cloud. And when the evening really steals upon her through the clouds, when the moon becomes a bright patch in the cloudy roof, when the clouds are then washed away by some noiseless force and all the stars are vaulted above her, when the stillness of dusk is superseded by the immobility of night, she finds herself in an unknown village, stumbling through silent alleys in which here and there a cart is standing without its horses.

  It is almost a matter of no account how far Marguerite will penetrate, whether she will ever be brought back or whether she will fall a prey to some wandering tramp—the sleepwalking of the infinite has seized upon her and never more will let her go.

  CHAPTER LXXXIII

  STORY OF THE SALVATION ARMY GIRL IN BERLIN (15)

  O autumn year, O new year of starvation,

  O gentle stars that warmed the autumn leaves,

  O agony of the long day! agony of barren sheaves,

  O agony of farewell, when in sad resignation

  they said farewell, and in their eyes, grief-stricken,

  was nought but tearless seeking to hold fast

  that moment of farewell, the very last:

  then in the city where hooting motors thicken

  they lost each other’s traces, one by one,

  each other’s hearts, and anguish veiled the sun

  and turned the moon to stone, yet was not fear;

  for old men’s wisdom, shining silver-clear,

  illumined them until their anguish grew

  into the richest dower that they knew.

  Was it not anguish drew them first of all

  together, like tired leaves upon the way?

  And their love’s anguish, was it not a ray

  from Heaven’s own anguish, beneath whose purple pall

  His glances in their silvery radiance play?

  The shy dove spreads its wings and flies abroad

  across the rolling billows of the sullen flood,

  bringing the covenant o’er the waters grey:

  in anguish God is throned, is throned in desolation,

  in Him love turns to anguish, and anguish is love’s motion,

  a covenant between Time and Time in earth’s duress,

  a covenant between loneliness and loneliness—

  the anguish God sent down with deepest love was fraught,

  and God’s own anguish changed His being into Thought.

  CHAPTER LXXXIV

  The Bible readings were now badly attended. The urgency of external events drew men’s attention away from what was happening in their own souls, and that applied especially to strangers, who lent a ready ear to every rumour that conveyed the possi
bility of their imminent return home. The townsmen were more constant; the Bible class had already become for them a part of the established order which they wished to preserve independently of war or peace, and in some corner of himself each of them was secretly disturbed rather than pleased by the rumours of peace.

  Fendrich and Samwald were natives of the town and were amongst the most faithful. Huguenau, indeed, asserted that Fendrich only came because Frau Esch had always milk in the house; he even went so far as to complain that he was skimped of his breakfast coffee because Frau Esch wanted to save the milk for the pious Fendrich. And he said this not only behind her back; but Frau Esch laughed at him: “Fancy being so jealous as that, Herr Huguenau,” and Huguenau retorted: “You just look out, Mother Esch, or your husband’s canting crew will eat you out of house and home.” Huguenau’s reproaches, however, were unjust; Fendrich would have come even without the milk-coffee.

  In any case there they were again in the kitchen, both Samwald and Fendrich. Huguenau, who had just made ready to go out, stuck his nose in at the door: “Having a good guzzle?” Frau Esch answered for them: “Oh, I haven’t a thing in the house.” Huguenau eyed them both to see if they were chewing, and glanced at the table, but on assuring himself that there was no food set out he was quite satisfied. “Then I can leave you with a good conscience,” he said, “you’re in the best of company, Mother Esch.” Yet he did not go; he was anxious to find out what she was saying to them. But they were all silent, so he began to talk himself: “Where’s your friend to-day, Herr Samwald? the one with the sticks?” Samwald indicated the window which was rattling in the wind: “When the weather’s bad he has aches and pains … he feels it beforehand.” “Oh, la la,” said Huguenau, “rheumatism; yes, that’s a trial.” Samwald shook his head: “No, he feels changes beforehand … he knows lots of things beforehand.” Huguenau was only half listening: “Of course, it might be gout.” Fendrich shivered a little: “I can feel it too in all my bones … in our factory there are more than twenty down with ’flu … old Petri’s daughter died yesterday … there have been some deaths in the hospital, too. Esch say it’s the plague … the lung plague.” Huguenau was disgusted: “He should be more careful with his defeatist arguments.… Plague! That would be a fine thing, indeed.” Samwald said: “As for Gödicke, even the plague couldn’t touch him … he has been raised from the dead.” Fendrich had still more to add on the subject: “According to the Bible all the plagues of the Apocalypse are bound to come now … the Major prophesied that too … so did Esch.” “Merde, I’ve had enough of this,” said Huguenau, “I wish you a very merry meeting. Salut.”

  On the stairway he met Esch: “Two of your jolly companions are sitting waiting for you up there … if the whole town starts babbling of the plague it’ll be your fault … you and your canting crew will send the whole world crazy, you’re just making people besotted.” Esch showed his strong teeth and waved his hand airily, which provoked Huguenau: “There’s nothing to grin at, Sir Reverend.” To his surprise Esch became serious at once: “You’re right, this is no time for laughing … the two up there are quite right.” Huguenau felt uncomfortable: “How are they right? … about the plague, for instance?” Esch said quietly: “Yes, and it would be better for you, yes, for you, my dear sir, if you were to realize at last that we’re in the midst of fear and tribulation.…” “I’d like to know what good that could do me,” said Huguenau, and began to continue his way downstairs. Esch had his schoolmastering voice: “I could soon enlighten you on that, but you don’t want to find out … you’re afraid to find out.…” Huguenau turned round. Esch was standing two steps above him and looked hugely powerful; it was annoying to have to look up at him like that, and Huguenau hopped up a step again. Suspicion was awakening in him again. What was it that Esch was keeping to himself? What could he know? But when Esch went on: “Only he who is in tribulation will partake of grace …” Huguenau stopped him: “Here, I want to listen to no more of that.…” Again Esch displayed his abominable sarcastic grin: “Didn’t I tell you? it doesn’t suit your new change of front … in fact, it has never suited you.”

  And he turned to continue his ascent.

  There was a lightning flash behind Huguenau’s eyeglasses:

  “One moment, Herr Esch.…”

  Esch paused.

  “Yes, Herr Esch, I’ve something to say to you … of course that drivel doesn’t suit me … grin if you like, it never has suited me.…I’ve always been a Freethinker and never made any secret of it.… I’ve never interfered with your canting piety, so you’ll kindly leave me to find happiness in my own fashion … you can call it a new change of front for all I care, and you can come nosing behind me too if you like, as you’ve evidently been doing, and I’m no demagogue either like you, and I don’t make people into besotted fools as you do, I’m not ambitious, but when I hear what’s being said, not by your hypocrites upstairs, of course not, but by other people, then I think it’s likely that things will take a very different turn from what you expect, Herr Reverend.… I mean, you’re going to see strange things, and you’ll see some people strung up on lamp-posts too … if the Major hadn’t taken it into his head to be angry with me I would give him a friendly warning, I’m a decent chap, I am … he’s got his back up against you, too, the doddering old fool, but all the same I’m giving you the chance of passing on the warning. You see, I play with all my cards on the table: I don’t stab people in the back like some others I know.”

  And with that he turned at last to go and tramped whistling down the stairs. Afterwards he was annoyed with himself for having been so good-natured—there was no reason why he should feel that he owed anything to the Herren Pasenow and Esch—why on earth had he warned them, and of what?

  Esch stood still for a moment. He felt for some reason struck to the heart. Then he said to himself: “A man who sacrifices himself must be a decent chap.” And although one couldn’t put it past Huguenau to commit any abomination, yet so long as he blustered so much it was all right: dogs that bark don’t bite. Let him jaw in the public-houses as much as he liked, it wouldn’t hurt anybody, least of all the Major. Esch smiled, he stood firm and strong on his feet, and then he stretched his arms like one who awakes from sleep or is nailed on a cross. He felt strong, firm and robust, and as if it were an entry settling the world’s account he repeated: “A man who sacrifices himself must be a decent chap,” then he pushed open the door of the kitchen.

  CHAPTER LXXXV

  “No one can see another in the darkness.”

  Events of 3rd, 4th and 5th November 1918.

  What Huguenau had prophesied actually came to pass: one did see strange things, and these strange things took place on the 3rd and 4th of November.

  On the morning of the 2nd of November a small demonstration was made by the workers from the paper factory. It proceeded, as such processions always do, towards the Town Hall, but this time, really for no particular reason, the windows were smashed in. The Major called out the half-company which still remained at his disposal, and the demonstrators dispersed. Nevertheless the ensuing calm was only on the surface. The town was filled with rumours; the collapse of the German front was known, but nobody could ascertain if there were any negotiations for an armistice, and terrible things hung in the air.

  So the day passed. In the evening a red glare could be seen in the west and it was said that all Trier was in flames. Huguenau, who regretted now that he had not long since sold the paper to the communists, resolved to run off a special edition, but his two workers were nowhere to be found. During the night there was firing in the neighbourhood of the prison. The rumour went that it had been a signal inciting the prisoners to a revolt. Later the information was divulged that a prison warder had let off several alarm shots on account of a misunderstanding; but nobody believed it.

  Meantime morning had come, cold, foggy and winter-like. Already by seven the town council had assembled in the unheated, faintly lit, panelled council-cham
ber; the arming of respectable citizens was universally demanded—but on the objection, which became stronger and stronger, that this might be interpreted as a provocative step against the workers, the formation of a Civil Guard which should include workers and middle class alike was decided upon. There arose certain difficulties with the Town Commandant regarding the giving out of rifles from the stock in the munition stores, but finally—almost over the Major’s head—the arms were requisitioned. Naturally there was no time left for a systematic levy, and so a committee under the chairmanship of the Burgomaster was chosen, which was to be responsible for the distribution of arms. That morning rifles were already being given out to all those who could prove that they were citizens of the town and could use a gun, and as things had reached that stage the Town Commandant could no longer refuse the collaboration of the military with the Civil Guard; the allocation of posts was already being made from the Commandant’s office.

  Esch and Huguenau had reported as a matter of course. Esch, resolved above all to remain near the Major, asked urgently to be employed within the town. He was put on night service, while Huguenau had to stand guard on the bridge during the afternoon.

  Huguenau sat on the stone parapet of the bridge and shivered in the November fog. His rifle with its bayonet fixed leant beside him. Grass grew between the stone blocks of the parapet, and Huguenau occupied himself in plucking it out. One could also unloosen ancient pieces of mortar from between the stones and then let them drop into the water. He was intensely bored and found the whole affair stupid. The upturned collar of his recently purchased overcoat chafed roughly against his neck and chin and gave no warmth. Out of pure boredom he satisfied the calls of nature, but that also was presently over, and he merely sat there again. It was stupid to sit there with the silly green band on one’s sleeve, and cold besides. And he considered whether he should not step over to the brothel—for the Major’s order closing it had not had the slightest effect; it now ran a secret trade.