Life Goes On: A Novel

by Hans Keilson

  They left together after a week and spent a few days in Munich, in perfect harmony with each other, before returning home. Fritz was suntanned and in excellent shape, without a gloomy, melancholy mood in sight. He joked around and made everyone forget what he had just put them through. His mother hugged him tight and this time he calmly let her do it. Before, this tenderness would have felt like a burden to him, and he would have tried to get away as fast as he could.

  On his third day back, he saw Albrecht. They sat across from each other, both a bit awkward (Albrecht more so than Fritz), and had trouble starting a normal conversation.

  “So, you’re back,” Albrecht said. It seemed so strange to him that he had to keep reminding himself, over and over.

  “Yes,” Fritz said, “now I’m back. I guess you didn’t think I’d come back?”

  Albrecht, hesitantly: “Yes, I’m surprised.”

  “My parents convinced me.”

  “And that’s all right with you?”

  “Yes, or did you think…? I proved to them that I’m serious about not going back to school.” He was finally free of that terrible burden, thank God.

  Albrecht said nothing. He was a little ashamed; Fritz had read his mind, at least partly. Maybe Albrecht thought he could see behind his friend’s words a longing for adventure, maybe a wish for clarity and real life—maybe both. I’m serious, he had just said, and his voice had sounded strong and confident, infallible. He was speaking the truth.

  “So, what now?” Albrecht asked.

  Fritz stayed silent. He couldn’t say anything specific, he had various plans, his parents and brother-in-law were looking into a few things for him, he couldn’t say for sure at the moment.

  After a few days, he had come to a decision. He left for Hamburg and became an apprentice in an export business. He was happy.

  “In an office?” Albrecht asked in amazement.

  “Yes,” Fritz answered, a little sadly, “there’s no other way, you just have to accept it. But on the other hand, it’s Hamburg, by the sea”—that made up for a lot, for him. “And the company has big offices overseas,” he said, and already his imagination had gained the upper hand. Overseas … even the word was seductive, suggesting that there was still a lot to discover: the wider world, other peoples, foreign languages, hidden wonders, with a beautiful fog of foreignness and danger half concealing it all. “I’ll stay here in Germany at first, of course,” he went on, “to learn the business; it’s not so simple, you have to stand your ground there too. But later, I’ll transfer.”

  “Where?”

  Fritz laughed. “Overseas, of course.”

  He said goodbye and started his job on the first of the following month.

  Albrecht went back to school in a new class—it was his final year. He did his duty, kept his head down, and gradually grew completely isolated from the other students. He had never had friends besides Fritz, and now Fritz was gone. Albrecht was left alone with his books and his violin. In fact, books became more and more important in Albrecht’s life. That was partly for another reason: Albrecht had met a man who exerted a great influence on him and effected a big change in his young life. For a long time, this man would be his guide and his friend. Albrecht saw him for the first time at an evening lecture of the Literary Society, a group he had long made it a habit to attend.

  Their town had a literary society for a few years. It led its own modest existence in a somewhat different category from the numerous societies and clubs that filled the city—sports clubs, political clubs—the main differences being that it never had a booth in the market square on holidays and festivals, and never marched in parades as the other groups did. For it had no flag. What in the world was it supposed to have as its symbol on a flag? The abstract, sexless mark of Literature?

  Albrecht Seldersen often attended their events, which took place in a park outside the city in the summer, and in an unpleasant meeting room in evenings in the winter. He went whenever there seemed to be something he might profit from. Even his schoolmates’ teasing couldn’t stop him—which was strange in itself. What could he have been looking for there? The answer was that, with time, he had discovered that sometimes a thought he vaguely sensed in himself (merely a breath of air, a soft sound) could, when he sensed it in someone else, a poet, be transformed into a fixed, clear harmony, ringing out loud and clear and purifying and strengthening his soul in a strange way. Whenever this happened, he felt it as good for him, like the refreshing bath he would take after a game at the gym or an event at the track, which drove all the fatigue from his limbs and cleansed his body.

  He would sit inconspicuously, near the foot of a long table, for they drank coffee at their events, or else he would drag his chair into the corner, put another chair in front of his chair as a kind of barrier, rest his arm on its back, and watch. The coffee cups clinked. Old women—little old spinsters, who had belonged to the uppermost circles before the war but who now, economically shipwrecked by the new social conditions and lacking all influence in society, spent friendly hours with one another there—listened to lectures, nodded in approval, and raised their cups to their lips. The masculine element was not very well represented, numerically speaking, but what men they were! A retired major was in charge: an upright man always on the lookout for new attractions to rope into his club. He gave the majority of lectures himself, when he couldn’t find anyone else, which overtaxed him even though he was still extremely spry for his age—in winter he used to wash himself with the snow from his balcony, and he did gymnastics in the nude with like-minded cohorts in a field that had been set aside for the purpose. The local bookseller was also in the club: once a wild and temperamental man, he was now, with the strength of his second youth, wrestling with his genius and forcing it to produce little short stories that even made their way into the mid-level family magazines.

  The out-of-work actor—left behind after the summer theater had closed for the year to proclaim poems and dramatic scenes in grand theatrical style before the art-loving citizenry—had moved on to another town, but the major kept his eyes peeled and then, at the start of the new year, a young judge appeared, a recent graduate sent to the city by his supervisors right after his exams and entrusted with a commissionership. He was from the Rhineland, on the western edge of Germany, and he carried himself freely and easily, a tendency that often butted up against the more rigid Prussian formality of life here. But here was where he found himself now, and unless he wanted to strike up a conversation with himself alone in his room or out on a walk in the woods, he would have to have recourse to the people interested in the intellectual life here. The major welcomed him with open arms and invited him to give a talk; reluctantly, he agreed.

  The events were advertised for days beforehand with flyers hung in the windows of a bakery and the bookstore. And sooner or later everyone who up until then had led a secret life, communing with the intellectual currents of the world within their own four walls, found their way to the society.

  That year, the lectures took place in an empty guest room of a hotel, reached by crossing a courtyard, climbing a dark flight of stairs, walking down a narrow hall, and taking the second door on the left. There were all sorts of things going on in the hotel: a hiking club danced folk dances in a club room downstairs, with someone hammering away on an out-of-tune piano whose grating sounds made their way upstairs; in the next room, the maids were giggling with the waiters above the restaurant, while a choir practiced in another of the back rooms.

  The lecture room filled up. The chairs were set out close together, with only a narrow aisle in the middle left free. The major welcomed all the newcomers with a beaming face, shook their hands personally, and thanked them for coming out to join them. So many people!

  Entrance was free; a charge imposed at the beginning of the year gave you free admittance—and a little steamboat ride in the summer too.

  Ten minutes after the time he was set to start, the lecturer appeared with his
landlord’s wife and the daughters of one of the local district court judges. He was a head taller than everyone there except the major. He quickly glanced around and saw almost no one but old people: women, not many men, two teachers, and one student in short pants and a brown corduroy jacket, blond, with wide, surprised eyes: Albrecht Seldersen. The young lecturer nodded across the room to him, even though they had never met. There’s an ally, he thought, and when he sat down at the table in the front of the room, he again gave Albrecht a friendly look. Then he started his lecture.

  He spoke in an excited voice, enthusiastically, with sweeping gestures, and slowly but surely achieved the miracle of sparking to life in this cold room, in front of so many people with whom he had nothing in common. All the faces around him grew blurry and melted away into the shape of the schoolboy’s face all the way at the back, which was staring fixedly at him. He bent forward slightly, to be a little bit closer to that face, and spoke to the student as though the two of them were alone in the room: “But Tonio Kröger keeps his distance. All he knows how to do is play a little violin, write a little poetry, and indulge to the fullest in a mood, with all of its longing and all of its suffering. Do you understand why I am talking to you? You are sitting there in short pants, with an open collar, surrounded by old people, and you think you have it in you to fight to the death until your last breath. But against what? Against whatever is crude and loud and vulgar. You play your violin in a dark room while pacing around the table. The next day, you win a pentathlon. You fight whenever someone insults you, and then sit here in the evening and listen in amazement to what I am telling you. That is how it should be. Because what matters is the life of the mind, and our love for the spirit, which is what makes us able to act in the world. What else could bring me to give a lecture in your frigid little backwater, in this inhospitable guest room, in front of people who still have the taste of their dinners in their mouths?”

  After the lecture, Albrecht waited by the door. Then the speaker emerged, with two women talking animatedly with each other. Albrecht turned around, intending to go home, when the lecturer held out his hand to him:

  “Good evening. Did you enjoy the talk?”

  Albrecht bowed deeply, not wanting anyone to see the blush on his cheeks.

  The next day, when they saw each other on the street, they said hello as though they had been close friends for a long time.

  “My name is Albrecht Seldersen,” he said.

  “A pleasure to meet you.” The young man already knew his name, of course. “You must come and visit me. When are you free?”

  “I’m in school,” Albrecht answered.

  “Yes, of course. Would you like to come by tomorrow evening? Not too late, please.” He gave Albrecht his address. Albrecht accepted the invitation.

  When he opened the garden gate the next day, Dr. Köster was already standing at the window upstairs and he called down a greeting. He welcomed Albrecht warmly upstairs and Albrecht immediately felt right at home. He looked around the room. There was a large shelf full of books against the wall and colorful piles of sheet music and more books covering the grand piano.

  “Have you already eaten?” Dr. Köster asked. Albrecht said he had.

  “I thought,” Köster went on, “that we would stay here for a while first, then perhaps go for a little walk up the street or into the park. How does that sound?”

  “Great,” Albrecht answered quickly, “I’d like that very much. There are lovely walks you can take around here, sometimes for hours without seeing a soul. That’s about all that we have here, to tell you the truth. But you haven’t been here long, have you?”

  Dr. Köster laughed. “I hope to get to know everything in the area soon. Would you be my guide?”

  Albrecht looked at him in silence. Then he only nodded.

  They talked for a good long while. Albrecht waited nervously for each new question and tried hard to answer it well. Once, when there was a slight pause in the conversation, Dr. Köster jumped up, sat down at the piano, and sang and played a short song, one which you heard everywhere in those days.

  Albrecht stayed sitting in his chair. His short pants had ridden up slightly on his muscular legs and his knees were bare. His socks were rolled down.

  Dr. Köster stood up from the piano.

  “What do you think, Albrecht? Do you like it? I heard it somewhere recently and forgot it, but it just came back to me.”

  They talked more. Albrecht let the other man do most of the talking; he liked listening to him. Köster was originally from a small town too, his father was a medical doctor like his grandfather before him and his grandfather’s father as well. But he himself had broken the chain. His studies had taken him to numerous cities and now he was working here, at the district court; he was a respected official, but this evening he was acting in a private capacity. Most of his spare time was spent on a major project that would surely keep him busy for several years—he indicated only very generally what it was, and Albrecht didn’t ask any questions. Earlier, in high school and during his first semesters at university, Dr. Köster had been an avid hiker. He still wore his hiking club’s pin on the lapel of his waistcoat.

  The evening went on and it seemed to Albrecht, more and more, that his own life was being laid out before him, by a stranger who nonetheless knew his life and many other things too. It was downright uncanny a lot of the time, and unspeakably thrilling. Albrecht felt like he was on his mark, waiting for the pistol shot to start the race, and here was someone he could ask: What’s it all really like?… But he didn’t think any more about that. He loved the culture, the well-proportioned order and civility emanating from the older man. Whenever Köster read or sang him something and he lay on the sofa to listen, he was filled with a deep sense of satisfaction. It was a wonderful sight he was presented with. Albrecht felt drawn to him with both youthful admiration and a warm camaraderie. He anxiously tried to think of something he could do to prove himself to Köster in return, some way not to come to him empty-handed. But there was nothing Köster wanted from him. When he left, Albrecht said that Dr. Köster should come over and visit his parents. They would surely also be glad to meet him. Dr. Köster accepted.

  Some time went by before he kept his promise. Albrecht meanwhile saw him on the street a few times, always in the company of women; he greeted him from afar as respectfully as he could, not daring to speak a word to him. But one day he appeared at Albrecht’s door, laughing, merry, and carefree. He sat right down at the piano and played, sang, and helped Albrecht past the first awkward minutes. Frau Seldersen walked in and Albrecht introduced them. She invited Dr. Köster to stay for dinner, and he immediately accepted. Mother set the round table in the front room for them, the room with the bookshelf and the writing desk. When she brought out the tray, her hands were shaking a little. Albrecht noticed. Herr Seldersen showed his face too, shook hands with Dr. Köster, and said a few words: he was happy to meet him, and hoped Albrecht wasn’t too stupid. Dr. Köster laughed and looked at Albrecht, who was leaning forward over the table, embarrassed and angry at his father’s words, forgetting to chew even though his mouth was full. Herr Seldersen vanished again, and they were alone once more.

  “What was that about?” Albrecht asked.

  “Don’t actually be stupid and prove him right,” came Köster’s rejoinder. “Or did you want him to walk in and compliment you?”

  Albrecht shook his head. They ate.

  Then he realized that he hadn’t yet told Dr. Köster anything about his friend Fritz. What would he think of Fritz’s situation?

  Dr. Köster listened to the whole story, his face growing serious and distant. Finally he said:

  “And how old is your friend?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Well, in that case he must know what he’s doing.” It sounded like an accusation.

  Silence.

  “I must say, such things have no appeal for me,” Dr. Köster admitted. “I don’t see the point, or
the inner justification, for taking such far-reaching decisions and drastic action, the way you say your friend has done. I understand it, but I don’t believe in it. I tell you, Albrecht, there’s nothing I hate more. And a word of advice for you too: don’t let yourself become an activist or join the struggle or God knows what else. I have always been careful not to do that, and I think you could use the same counsel. You did hear what I just said in my lecture, didn’t you?”

  Albrecht said nothing. He couldn’t deny what Köster had said, even if he also felt that some aspects of it were still unclear. He had only a dim sense of what was visible through Köster’s words, but he knew he did not want to spend any more time in its company.

  Dr. Köster stood up and walked over to the bookshelf. He opened the glass door.

  “Read, Albrecht, that’s much more sensible, and it helps more. You own books, that’s good. Have you read them all?”

  Albrecht stood next to him. “Yes.”

  “I’d be glad to loan you more books, if you want. You’ll take good care of them. Books are your friends.”

  Albrecht said he would be very glad to read anything Köster chose for him, and promised to take good care of them.

  And Dr. Köster kept his promise. He loaned Albrecht books, and those books entered Albrecht’s life, coming to occupy an important place there. Before long, they became central to how Albrecht thought about his life.

  One of the books Dr. Köster loaned him had a captivating, melancholy sweetness that Albrecht had never come across before. He read it countless times until he almost had it memorized, and every time revealed something new. There was the world, brightly colored, frightening, and full of inexplicable events, and here, off to one side—a great distance off—was Tonio Kröger: no conquering hero, no man of adventure or bearer of glad tidings, but someone who reined himself in tight no matter what he was doing, someone who knew too much, who sensed a thousand things in the smallest revelation, a scrupulous observer of everything, to the point of losing himself and spoiling every pleasure he might have had. He was an odd man out, redundant in life. Even as a young man, he seemed destined to perceive every revelation of life in a melancholy and painful way, and to relive it inside himself. He suffered when he loved, and kept apart while other people simply took as their due whatever life had to offer—and yet he had the understanding and the pain, the knowledge and the renunciation. Without realizing it, Albrecht lost himself in the book’s enchanting voice; no longer thinking, he felt, or dreamed, the wavering borderline where life and death, health and sickness, gently met. Grand, strange, wonderful thoughts came to him, and he had no idea himself how they had arisen, but for the time being astonishment and uncertainty outweighed everything else. This fateful book was decisive for Albrecht. He felt understood, acknowledged; he felt that the book could see right through him and that it sketched out in advance the possibilities and potential of his own life. He stuck to the once-hidden path it laid out—he even felt that whenever he risked diverging from it was just when he needed to make every effort to find his way back to it again.