by Unknown
I’m just bones and a bundle of nerves, said Martha, exhausted.
Oh, come on, replied Fanny, people see you better from outside. Look at yourself. Fanny put her long hand on the nape of Martha’s neck. Helene had to look away.
On a whim, and to annoy the Baron, Leontine cut Helene’s hair short that afternoon, level with her earlobes, and shaved away the rim of hair left in the nape of her neck with a knife. How light her head felt now!
In honour of the day, said Leontine, and got Helene to kiss her by way of thanks. To think that Helene would ever be so close to her own earlobes! Could she, Leontine, kiss those earlobes? Helene merely touched Leontine’s cheeks briefly with hers, her kisses flew into the air above Leontine’s shoulders, two, three, four, only Helene’s nose touched her friend’s ears. How did Leontine manage to smell as she once had in Lusatia, even today?
During the hair-cutting operation, the Baron kept passing the open doorway of the bathroom, putting his head round the door on a variety of threadbare pretexts and uttering wails of dismay. He couldn’t bear to watch, he cried, one hand going to his flies, barely in time to cover himself. It was a sin and a shame!
Martha gave Helene a knee-length dress of satin and chiffon that she had worn herself last season. It had originally been Fanny’s. Helene would be tall enough to wear it now, that was true. But Helene wasn’t as thin as Fanny and Martha. Without hesitating, Leontine said she would let out the dress at the seams and asked for a needle. In less than half an hour the dress fitted Helene perfectly. Out of the corner of her eye, Helene saw the Baron bending down to pick up her hair from the floor. He laid the long golden tresses over his arm and left the bathroom almost unnoticed, taking them with him. Fanny announced that she felt both too old and too young for satin. But the dress was just the thing for Helene, Fanny added, and she didn’t look again once Helene had the dress on. Presumably the grammar-school course and the dress must seem to her a good way of getting rid of Helene.
A summer night, the air was warm, a breeze was rising. Was Helene a little uneasy about her new hairstyle? She put on the hat that had come to Bautzen from Breslau along with their great-uncle’s legacy, the cloche hat like those all the women wore now, except that hers was made of velvet and set with small paste gemstones.
Fanny went ahead with Lucinde and the Baron; Leontine and Martha took Helene between them and linked arms with her. The scent of lime blossom wafted in their faces. Helene was wearing a transparent organza scarf instead of a jacket. The wind was pleasantly cool on her throat.
Two white-faced people stood at the entrance of the White Mouse; their make-up didn’t tell you for sure whether they were men or women. These doorkeepers unsmilingly negotiated the admission of guests. Those they knew were welcomed, strangers were turned away. Fanny was recognized and had a confidential word with one of the two doorkeepers, no doubt saying that the Baron, Lucinde and the young ladies were in her party. The doorkeeper was happy with that and opened the door for them with a gesture of invitation. The bar was not particularly large; guests stood crowded close together. Further forward, near a stage, there were tables with guests sitting at them. The days were gone when the famous Anita Berber performed her Dance of Vice and Horror here, a spectacle that was also called a Dance of Death; it was said that she now danced in a real theatre but didn’t appear often. However, all the guests could still imagine her on this stage. Their eyes kept going to the red curtains as if they thought she might appear at any moment and perform. Everyone had read how her lover stole from her in Vienna and abandoned her, thereafter travelling to America, where he was reported to have married four women within a single year. The latest rumour was that he had died soon after returning to Hamburg.
So there was no Anita Berber, but instead three musicians soon gathered on the stage, a trombonist, a clarinettist and a trumpeter. And while Helene still thought that the long-drawn-out notes were just tuning up, some of the guests began dancing. Helene was pushed on through the crowd, Fanny handed in her cape at the cloakroom and, without asking, removed Helene’s hat. Lucinde ordered champagne and glasses. They whispered, wasn’t that Margo Lion, standing over there among a cluster of people? The Baron’s eyes were turned only on Helene; they clung to her, to her face, her shoulders, her hands. His glances made her feel both safe and uncomfortable. The bare nape of her neck was probably a challenge to him, and not unwelcome, as Helene said to herself, but very exciting. Suddenly she felt breath on her shoulder and the Baron said, in his soft voice that almost squeaked when he tried to make it sound firm: Helene, you’re losing your scarf. Helene looked down at herself, at a loss, and then at the Baron, who seemed to her even smaller than usual tonight. Once again his lips approached; he was almost kissing her throat. I can see the little dimples in your shoulders, they’re sending me crazy.
Helene couldn’t help laughing. Someone pushed her gently in the back.
You’d better put that scarf round your shoulders again or other men will discover you.
She supposed the Baron was trying to claim rights to her bare shoulders. Helene turned. Fanny and Lucinde stood behind her; they had met Bernard and a friend of his. Fanny told her friends and her nieces to take a glass each from the tray. It was lucky that this club was so noisy. Helene didn’t want to answer the Baron; she draped the scarf casually over her elbows. Batting her false eyelashes was exciting too, and she had no objection at all if other men saw her little dimples.
Leontine greeted a young man and introduced him to her: his name was Carl Wertheimer. The music was so loud now that Leontine had to shout, and the young man put his hands over his ears. He was one of her pathology students, Leontine shouted, he’d smuggled himself into her course, he was really studying philosophy and languages – Latin, Greek – and modern literature too, he was obviously going to be a poet. Carl Wertheimer shook his head vigorously. Never. Oh yes, said Leontine, laughing, she’d once seen him standing in a group of students reciting a poem, she was sure he’d written it himself. Carl Wertheimer seemed bewildered by all this. He was a perfectly ordinary student, he said, and if he did quote Ovid or Aristotle, that wasn’t to be compared with the efforts of the rising generation of writers to emulate them. Anyway, he added, he wouldn’t have the courage to confess to such attempts of his own in the presence of these clever ladies. Leontine ran her hand over his hair in a sisterly way, she made him seem like a small child. Helene looked searchingly at him; his eyes were level with hers, his slender physique was that of a boy. He was probably about Helene’s own age. She looked at him for a moment like someone who might be hers, but all his attention was given to Leontine. It was obvious that Carl Wertheimer looked up to her and not just because she appeared to be several centimetres taller than he was. Leontine was an unusual woman and no doubt he valued her as a teacher; perhaps he was a little in love with her.
Other musicians joined the three on stage, also playing trombones, clarinets and trumpets. The notes dragged along, the beat lurched and swayed. To Helene’s surprise, more and more people around her began to dance, and soon she could hardly see the dance floor as the parquet under her feet vibrated in time to the music. Fanny and Bernard were ahead of everyone else, Lucinde took Bernard’s friend’s hand, even Martha and Leontine mingled with the dancers and only the Baron held back. He stood guard over the tray of glasses, his back to the wall, and he never took his eyes off Helene, who still stood there undecided. A hand was laid gently on her arm. Would she like to dance, asked a clean-shaven man; he took the glass from her hand and led her away with him. He held tight to Helene with one hand, as if he had to be careful, as if the music might lure her away; it was slow at first, then fast, and his other hand, as if by chance, touched her bare arm while they danced. The music spared nothing, no living creature, it went through her, took every particle of her and transformed the room into fragments of time. A moment ago the place had been quiet, motionless, but now it was in uproar, or so it seemed to Helene, an uproar that not only set
every mol-ecule and every organ swaying but strained the frames of the dancers’ bodies and the bounds of the room itself to the utmost without breaking them apart. The music stretched, filled the place with a dull glow, glittering softly, a spray of delicate melodies no longer observing ordinary musical rules; it bent the bodies of the dancers, doubled them up, raised them again, reeds blowing in the wind. Once the clean-shaven man put his hand on Helene’s hips and she jumped, but he only wanted to keep her from colliding with another dancing couple. Helene looked around, she saw Leontine’s throat, her short dark hair; Helene moved sideways, making her way past the bodies that bent towards her and then turned away, tracing a winding path through the dancers, and the clean-shaven man followed every step she took, past other dancers, ducking below their arms, until Helene caught Martha’s hand and saw Leontine’s smile. The clean-shaven man gestured frantically, looked indignant, did a handstand and landed on his feet again. Helene couldn’t help laughing. She tried to follow the beat, her shoulders and arms moved, the people around her writhed and swirled in the music, became entangled with each other, trod on one another’s feet. The music reminded Helene of being on a swing: if someone gave you a push the impetus of the swing carried everything away with it, made straight for its target, but in the next bar it began to falter. It made you swing and stretch your legs first this way, then that, and a reeling, rolling, spinning movement began, an elliptical circling, ever-decreasing with its own logic. Martha’s head was nodding alarmingly, her hair was coming loose, she flung out her arms in Leontine’s direction as if she were drowning. Helene saw her glazed eyes, their gaze veiled by night, unable to focus on anyone now, unable to recognize anyone. She waved to Martha, but now Martha was leaning on Leontine with a drunken, rather foolish smile on her face. The trumpet cut in strongly, provided impetus, the dancers began sweating, the women’s bare arms and shoulders gleamed in the narrow beams of light cast by the small lamps. Next moment Helene couldn’t see the violet blue of Leontine’s dress any more and Martha’s maudlin smile had disappeared; a new rhythm began. Helene looked around, but she could see neither Leontine nor Martha. Meanwhile, she caught sight of the back of her clean-shaven dancing partner, now dancing with another young woman.
Helene found herself alone in the midst of the excited crowd. The music surrounded her, possessed her, trying to permeate her and leave her at the same time. Helene flung out her arms and her legs. Anxiety took over her body; she knew none of the dance movements, but she did still know where the floor was. Even if the floor gave way, her feet were landing on it and rising up again, so feet and floor depended on each other. Helene tried to reach the edge of the crowd, where she thought the Baron might be, although she couldn’t see his hat, nor could she see any of the rest of her party, but the dancers pushed her further and further into the crowd, and her legs never stopped following the rhythm. There was nowhere you could more easily disappear than in the midst of all these dancers. Helene gave herself up to the dance; the sound of the clarinets chased her feet on, the musical beat was catching up with her, she was punching holes in the air with her arms.
A hand reached for her; she didn’t know the man. His face was covered with white make-up, his lips were almost black, and Helene danced. With every dance her partner’s face and figure changed. Soon Leontine and Martha reappeared. Martha smiled at her as she danced; perhaps, just perhaps, that smile was really aimed in her direction, meant for the music, for her brief disappearance, but Helene wasn’t trying to get near Martha any more. Someone else’s glance had been following Helene for some time in the darkness near the platform, from one of the little tables with the small green lamps. Helene recognized Carl Wertheimer and was glad that he had finally noticed her. Perhaps he was just curious to find out what Leontine’s friends were like. His glance was attentive, but it didn’t bother her. Carl Wertheimer still wore his coat; its smooth fur collar shone, perhaps he was about to leave. He was smoking a short, slender pipe. His eyes kept going to the other dancers, to Leontine, then back to Helene. In spite of his youth, Helene couldn’t help thinking, his features were grave and dignified.
The clarinet called, Helene leaped after it; the trombone pushed at her and Helene leaned back; the trumpet beckoned her on, but Helene hesitated.
Soon after that she twisted her ankle, stumbled and lost her balance. She grabbed Martha’s shoulder to keep herself from falling and leaned on it. Martha must have mistaken her for someone else; she roughly shook off Helene’s hand. The little strap of Helene’s shoe was broken; there was nothing she could do but hold the shoe in her hand and make her way through the sweet-sour odour of the dancing crowd. When she reached the stage she turned left. As soon as she was away from the stuffy warmth of the dancers and their hot clutches she felt a cool draught coming from the darkness. Were there windows somewhere? She couldn’t see any. Perhaps someone had opened the door to let in some air. Helene looked over the dancers’ heads; a long way off, at the back of the room, she saw Fanny’s white face. Fortunately there was no sign of the Baron’s hat. Would she like a drink? Someone jostled her. Helene said a quick no, thank you, and hurried on. She passed figures exhausted by the night’s revels and pale early-morning faces. A shiver ran down her back, and unexpectedly she was looking into the eyes of Carl Wertheimer, the thin-faced young man.
Excuse me, he said, I think you’re a friend of Leontine’s. His voice was remarkably deep for one so young. Her gaze fell on his fur collar. It shimmered so beautifully that she would have liked to stroke the fur.
Helene nodded; of course he didn’t know her name. So she said: Helene, I’m Helene Würsich.
Wertheimer, Carl Wertheimer. Fräulein Leontine was kind enough to introduce me to her friends at the beginning of the evening.
You’re her student.
He nodded and offered her his arm. Do you need help?
I do indeed, my shoe’s broken. Helene held the shoe out to him. She thought of Martha, looked round in alarm, and saw her sister among the dancers with her arms round Leontine. It almost looked as if Martha were going to kiss Leontine in front of everyone. A slight uneasiness, a momentary revulsion overcame Helene; it was not so much the faint sense of being shut out as fear of this stranger’s discovering everything, of revelation of the network in which she too belonged, as Martha’s sister and ally. Helene wanted to divert Wertheimer’s attention.
Have you known Dr Leontine long?
Our aunt invited us to stay. She has lots of friends. Helene made a vague gesture. I’m afraid I have to leave now.
Of course. May I accompany you? I don’t think you ought to be limping home alone through the empty streets.
Yes, please. I’d like that. I’m afraid, she said, thinking of the pigeons picking seeds out of the ashes in the Cinderella story, that I don’t have either ashes or pigeons to lend me charms. Then she realized that her ears were burning; she had meant to suggest not so much charms as virginal patience.
Helene said goodbye to her aunt. Fanny didn’t even deign to look at the young student Wertheimer, but assured Helene that Otta would open the door to her when she got home.
It was light now outside. The birds were twittering softly to greet the summer day, although it had dawned long ago and the street lights were out. A cab was waiting for custom. Clearly people must be beginning to go to work. A newspaper boy stood on the corner offering the Morgenpost and the Querschnitt.
The Querschnitt on the street so early in the morning, said Carl, smiling and shaking his head.
Helene was enjoying her encounter with Wertheimer, and as they asked each other the first tentative questions about their lives she did not tell him how close they were to where she was staying. One foot shod, the other bare and touching the paving stones, Helene felt the sticky surface of the street. The lime trees had been dropping their nectar overnight.
Come, let’s conceal ourselves more closely . . . Wertheimer looked enquiringly at Helene to see if she recognized his quotation from the
poet Else Laske-Schüler.
Life lies in all our hearts. Quickly, casually, Helene tossed the next line back to him.
As if in coffins. Wertheimer happily completed the second verse of the poem. But Helene said no more; she just smiled.
What is it? he asked. Won’t you go on?
I’ve forgotten how the rest of it goes.
I don’t believe that. He looked surprised and a little sorry, but she mollified him.
You say it so cheerfully, but ‘The End of the World’ is a sad poem, don’t you think?
You call it sad? It’s optimistic, Helene! What can be fuller of promise than devotion, a kiss, a longing that embraces us and brings us to the point of death?
You believe she was thinking of God when she wrote it?
Not at all, the divine is closer to her. How does the poem begin? Why, with many doubts! She speaks of weeping as if the good Lord God were dead. But if she believed in God she’d assume he was immortal, so it’s a double rejection of faith; she doesn’t believe in the good Lord any more than an evil Lord or any other kind of god. Is the death of God supposed to make the world weep for him or because it’s rid of him?
Helene looked at Wertheimer. She mustn’t forget to close her lips. Didn’t Martha keep telling her to shut her mouth or insects would fly into it? She had never heard anyone discuss a poem like this.
But wasn’t the poem hers, all hers? Waxing enthusiastic, Helene was talking away now, for her poem rather than her life, although with a man like Wertheimer you couldn’t draw sharp distinctions between the two.
Laske-Schüler doesn’t regale herself on God, she doesn’t regale herself on mankind and their sufferings either, she grants them only a kiss before dying. Believe me, her own mortality, looking her in the face – whether she’s to die of longing and in tears or not – human mortality, her understanding that it’s inevitable, all that’s clearly opposed to God’s immortality.
