Although the gap caused by Lucie’s absence from the evening ceremony was painful for my aunt, it was explained by a circumstance that can be accepted as a valid excuse for all women—pregnancy.
But Lucie had created what is called a precedent: she had proved that, although our aunt suffered when someone was absent, she did not start screaming right away, and my cousin Johannes and his brother-in-law Karl now tried to break out of the strict discipline by pleading illness or business commitments, or offering other more or less transparent reasons. But here my uncle was surprisingly adamant: with relentless severity he stipulated that only in exceptional cases could doctors’ certificates be submitted and the briefest of dispensations applied for. My aunt immediately noticed any additional gap and would break into quiet but persistent weeping, giving rise to the most ominous concern.
After a month, Lucie returned and expressed her willingness to rejoin the daily ritual, but her doctor has insisted that a jar of pickles and a plate of hearty sandwiches be kept in readiness for her, her spekulatius trauma having proved to be incurable. Thus for a while all disciplinary problems were resolved by my uncle, who on this point turned out to be surprisingly adamant.
VIII
Soon after the first anniversary of the perpetual Christmas celebration, disturbing rumors began to circulate: my cousin Johannes was said to have obtained an expert opinion from a medical friend as to the foreseeable life span of my aunt—a truly sinister rumor that threw a disquieting light on a peaceful daily family gathering. The expert opinion was said to have been devastating for Johannes. All the vital organs of my aunt, whose life has been a model of sobriety, are completely intact; the life span of her father extended over seventy-eight years, that of her mother over eighty-six. My aunt herself is sixty-two, and there is therefore no reason to prophesy an early and blessed demise for her. Even less, in my opinion, to wish it for her. So when my aunt fell ill during the summer—vomiting and diarrhea plagued the poor woman—there were whisperings that she had been poisoned; but let me expressly declare that this rumor is nothing but a figment on the part of evil-minded relatives. It has been proved beyond a doubt that she suffered from an infection brought in by a grandson. Analyses of my aunt’s feces showed not even the slightest trace of poison.
That same summer the first antisocial tendencies showed up in Johannes: he resigned from his choral society, declaring, in writing, that he no longer intended to devote himself to the cultivation of German songs. It is true, of course—if I may interject this here—that, despite his academic degree, he was an uncultured person. For the male choir Virhymnia, being deprived of his bass voice was a great loss.
Lucie’s husband, Karl, began secretly to get in touch with emigration offices. The land of his dreams had to have certain qualities: no fir trees must grow there, and their import must be prohibited or made impossible by high tariffs; furthermore—this for his wife’s sake—the secret of baking spekulatius must be unknown there and the singing of Christmas carols prohibited. Karl declared his willingness to accept hard manual labor.
Meanwhile his attempts have been released from the curse of secrecy because my uncle has undergone a complete and abrupt change. This took place on such a disagreeable level that we had every reason to be shocked. That respectable man, of whom I can only say that he is as stubborn as he is kind, was observed on paths that are unquestionably immoral and will remain so as long as the world continues to exist. Various things have become known about him, and attested to by witnesses, to which only the word “adultery” can be applied. And the most terrible part about it is that he no longer denies it but claims that he is living under circumstances and conditions that must justify exceptional moral standards. Awkwardly enough, this sudden change came to light at the very time when the appeal against the two clerics of his parish was due to be heard. As a witness, as a crypto-plaintiff, Uncle Franz must have made such an unprepossessing impression that he can be considered solely to blame for the fact that the appeal turned out in favor of the two clerics. But by this time all such things have ceased to interest Uncle Franz: the moral disintegration of Uncle Franz is complete, a fait accompli.
He was also the first to hit upon the idea of having an actor represent him at the evening ritual. He had dug up an unemployed bon vivant who imitated him for two weeks so perfectly that not even his wife was aware of the substitution. His children were not aware of it either. It was one of the grandsons who, during a short pause in the singing, suddenly called out, “Grandpa’s wearing striped socks!,” at the same time triumphantly raising the bon vivant’s trouser leg. For the poor artist, this scene must have been terrible. The family too were aghast, and, in order to avert a disaster, they immediately—as already so often in embarrassing situations—struck up a carol. After my aunt had gone to bed, the identity of the artist was quickly established. It was the signal for an almost total collapse.
IX
Still, one must bear in mind that eighteen months is a long time, and that midsummer had arrived again, the season in which my relatives find it hardest to participate in this charade. Listlessly they nibble in the heat at cinnamon stars and gingerbread, smiling fixedly while they crack dry nuts, listening to the tirelessly hammering dwarfs, and flinching when the red-cheeked angel whispers “Peace” above their heads, “Peace.” But they carry on while, despite their summer clothing, the perspiration runs down their necks and cheeks and their shirts stick to their bodies. Or, rather, they used to carry on.
For the time being, money is no object—on the contrary, one might say. Now there are whispers that Uncle Franz has been resorting to business methods that virtually no longer permit the description “Christian businessman.” He is determined not to allow any appreciable diminution of his fortune, a commitment that both reassures and alarms us.
The unmasking of the bon vivant led to a regular mutiny, the result of which was a compromise: Uncle Franz has undertaken to finance a small ensemble to replace himself, Johannes, my brother-in-law Karl, and Lucie; and an agreement has been reached whereby one of the four takes part in the evening ritual in person, in order to keep an eye on the children. So far the prelate has been quite unaware of this fraud, to which one can by no means apply the adjective “pious.” Apart from my aunt and the children, he is the only original character in this charade.
A detailed plan has been worked out, known in the family as the “game plan”; and in view of the fact that one of them always does take part, the actors are also assured of certain free days. Meanwhile the family has noticed that the actors are not at all averse to lending themselves to the ritual and are happy to earn some extra money; consequently their fees have been successfully reduced, there being fortunately no lack of out-of-work actors. Karl has told me that there is a good chance of further reducing this item, and quite considerably, especially since the actors are offered a meal, and, as everybody knows, art doesn’t put bread on the table.
X
I have already hinted at the disastrous trend taking place in Lucie: she now spends almost all her time gadding about in night spots, and, especially on days when she has been forced to take part in the ceremony at home, she throws all restraint to the winds. She wears cords, gaudy sweaters, runs around in sandals, and has cut off her glorious hair in favor of a plain square-cut style which, I now learn, has been in vogue more than once as “bangs.” Although I have not yet been able to observe any overt immorality on her part, merely a certain exaltation that she herself calls “existentialism,” I cannot see my way toward regarding this trend as desirable. I prefer women who are gentle, who move decorously to the rhythm of a waltz, who quote pleasant poetry, and whose diet does not consist exclusively of pickles and goulash over-spiced with paprika. Karl’s emigration plans seem to be crystallizing: he has discovered a country, not far from the equator, that promises to live up to his conditions, and Lucie is thrilled: in that country people wear clothes not unlike her own, love pungent spices, and dance to rhythms with
out which she maintains she is no longer able to live. Although it is somewhat shocking that this couple do not seem to cherish the idea of “Home, sweet home,” I can understand their desire to get away from it all.
The situation with Johannes is even worse. Unfortunately the nasty rumor has turned out to be true: he has become a Communist. He has broken off all connection with his family, ignores all his obligations, and attends the evening ritual only by proxy: that of his double. His eyes have acquired a fanatical expression; he acts like a dervish at the public functions of his party, neglects his practice, and writes furious articles in appropriate journals. Strangely enough, he now quite often sees Franz, who tries vainly to convert him and whom he tries just as vainly to convert. Despite all spiritual alienation, they have grown somewhat closer on a personal level.
As for Franz, I have not seen him for a long time, only heard of him. He is said to have fallen into a deep depression, spending hours in dim churches, and I believe one is justified in describing his piety as exaggerated. He began to neglect his profession after his family became engulfed in its troubles; and just the other day I saw on the wall of a demolished building a faded poster announcing “Last fight of ex-champion Lenz vs. Lecoq. Lenz retiring from the ring.” The poster was dated March, and we are now well into August. Franz is said to be in very poor shape. I believe he finds himself in a situation never before experienced in our family: he is poor. Fortunately he has remained single, so the social consequences of his irresponsible piety affect only himself. With amazing persistence he has been trying to arrange for Lucie’s children to be placed under protective guardianship, believing as he does that they are threatened by the evening ritual. But his efforts have been in vain: we can be thankful that the children of well-to-do couples are not exposed to the interference of social institutions.
The one who has removed himself the least from the rest of the family is, in spite of some repulsive traits, Uncle Franz, although it is true that, in spite of his advanced age, he has a mistress, and his commercial practices are of a nature of which, while we may admire them, we can by no means approve. Recently he unearthed an out-of-work stage manager who supervises the evening ritual and sees to it that everything goes like clockwork. And it really does.
XI
Meanwhile almost two years have passed: a long time. And I could not refrain, on one of my evening strolls, from walking past my uncle’s house, where normal hospitality is no longer possible, now that unknown artist types are milling around in there every evening and the members of the family indulge in strange-seeming amusements. It was a warm summer’s evening when I passed by there, and even as I turned the corner into the chestnut avenue I could hear the words “Christmas glitter decks the forests …” A passing truck rendered the remainder inaudible. I crept slowly up to the house and looked through a gap in the curtains into the room: the resemblance of the playactors to the relatives they were representing was so startling that for a moment I could not make out who actually was in charge—as they call it—that evening. I could not see the dwarfs, but I could hear them. Their chirping tinkle is on wavelengths that penetrate every wall. The whispering of the angel was inaudible. My aunt seemed genuinely happy: she was chatting with the prelate, and it took a while for me to recognize my brother-in-law as the only, if I may so put it, real person. I recognized him by the way he puckered his lips when he blew out a match. There do seem to be unmistakable traits of individuality. It occurred to me that the actors are treated to cigars, cigarettes, and wine; moreover, asparagus is served every evening. If they take advantage of this—and which artist would not?—it means a considerable additional expense for my uncle. The children were playing with dolls and toy wagons in a corner of the room: they looked pale and wan. Perhaps something really should be done about them, after all. It occurred to me that they might be replaced by wax dummies, the kind used in drugstore windows to promote milk powder and skin cream. They always seem very lifelike to me.
So I decide to draw the attention of the family to the possible effects of this unusual daily stimulation on childish minds. Although, of course, a certain amount of discipline can do no harm, it would seem that inordinate demands are being placed upon them in this instance.
I left my observation post when they started to sing “Silent Night.” I really couldn’t stand that carol. The air was so mild—and for a moment I had the impression of being present at a gathering of ghosts. I was suddenly seized by a craving for pickles, which gave me an inkling of how greatly Lucie must have suffered.
XII
Meanwhile I have been successful in having the children replaced by wax dummies. The acquisition proved to be expensive—Uncle Franz balked at it for a long time, but it would have been irresponsible to continue to allow the children to be fed marzipan every evening and make them sing carols that may eventually cause psychological damage. The acquisition of the dummies proved fortunate, since Karl and Lucie really did emigrate, and Johannes also withdrew his children from his father’s household. Standing amid big steamer trunks, I said goodbye to Karl, Lucie, and the children; they seemed happy, although somewhat apprehensive. Johannes has also moved away from our city. He is busy somewhere reorganizing one of the regional branches of his party.
Uncle Franz is tired of life. In a plaintive voice he recently told me that they keep forgetting to dust the dummies. The servants are giving him enough trouble as it is, and the actors are beginning to get out of hand. They are drinking more than they are entitled to, and some of them have been caught pocketing cigars and cigarettes. I advised my uncle to serve them colored water and to obtain some cardboard cigars.
The only reliable ones are my aunt and the prelate. They chat about the good old days, titter, and seem to be having a good time, and they only break off their conversation when a carol is struck up.
In any event: the ritual is being continued.
My cousin Franz’s career has taken a strange turn. He has been accepted as a lay brother in a nearby monastery. The first time I saw him in his monk’s habit I got a shock: that tall figure with the broken nose and swollen lips, those brooding eyes—he reminded me more of a convict than of a monk. It almost seemed as if he had divined my thoughts. “Our life is our punishment,” he said in a low voice. I followed him into the visitors’ room. Our conversation was stiff and halting, and he was obviously relieved when the bell summoned him for prayers in the chapel. I stood there pensively as he left: he was hurrying, and his haste seemed to be genuine.
RECOLLECTIONS OF A YOUNG KING
At the age of thirteen I was proclaimed King of Capota. I happened to be sitting in my room, busy trying to erase the “un” from the “unsatisfactory” at the bottom of one of my essays. My father, Pyg Gy the First of Capota, was off for a month’s hunting in the mountains, and I had been told to forward my essay to him by royal express courier. So I was counting on the poor lighting in hunting lodges and busily erasing when I suddenly heard loud cries outside the palace: “Long live Pyg Gy the Second!”
A few minutes later my personal valet came rushing into the room, prostrated himself in the doorway, and whispered devoutly, “May it please Your Majesty not to hold it against me that I once reported Your Majesty to His Excellency the prime minister for smoking.”
I found the valet’s servility obnoxious, sent him away, and went on erasing. It was my tutor’s custom to mark my work with a red indelible pencil. I had just rubbed a hole in the paper when I was interrupted again: the prime minister entered, knelt down by the door, and cried, “Three cheers for Pyg Gy the Second!” He added, “Your Majesty, the people wish to see you.”
I was quite bewildered, put down the eraser, dusted off my hands, and asked, “Why do the people wish to see me?”
“Because you are the king.”
“Since when?”
“Since half an hour ago. Your most gracious father was fatally shot by a Rasac while hunting.” (Rasac is the abbreviation for “Radical Sadists of Capota.
”)
“Oh, those Rasacs!” I exclaimed. Then I followed the prime minister out onto the balcony and showed myself to the people. I smiled, waved my arms, and felt quite bewildered.
This spontaneous demonstration lasted two hours. It was already beginning to grow dark before the crowd dispersed; a few hours later it came past the palace again in the form of a torchlight procession.
I went back to my rooms, tore up my essays, and threw the scraps into the courtyard of the royal palace. There—as I later found out—they were gathered up by souvenir hunters and sold to foreign countries where today the evidence of my weakness in spelling is displayed under glass.
There now followed some strenuous months. The Rasacs attempted a putsch but were suppressed by the Misacs (“Mild Sadists of Capota”) and the army. My father was buried, and I had to attend sessions of Parliament and sign new laws—but on the whole I enjoyed being king because I could now deal differently with my tutor.
When he asked me at lesson time, “May it please Your Majesty to recite the rules regarding improper fractions?” I would say, “No, it does not please me,” and he could do nothing about it. When he said, “Would Your Majesty find it intolerable if I were to ask Your Majesty to write down, on about three pages, the motives of William Tell when he murdered Gessler?” I would say, “Yes, I would find it intolerable,” and I would require him to enumerate William Tell’s motives for my benefit.
The Collected Stories of Heinrich Böll Page 86
