He took one down from over the chimney-piece, and held it in front of them, while David and Miss Muffet made the most awful faces into it.
“That’s a beauty,” said Miss Muffet, as David squinted, screwed up his nose, and put his tongue out. “Thank you for that one, my dear. It gave me quite a start. You are really remarkably ugly. Will you feel my pulse, and see how I am getting on. Make another face: I’m used to that one. Oh, I got a beauty then: it terrified me. And begin your ghost story quickly.”
David had no idea where anybody’s pulse was, so he began his ghost story.
“Once upon a time,” he said, “there was a ghost that lived in the hot-water tap.”
“Gracious, how dreadful!” said Miss Muffet. “What was it the ghost of?”
“It wasn’t the ghost of anything,” said David. “It was just a ghost.”
“But it must have been ‘of’ something,” said Miss Muffet. “The King is the King of England, and I’m Miss Muffet of nothing at all. But you must have an ‘of.’ ”
“This one hadn’t,” said David firmly. “It was just a ghost. It groaned when you turned the hot water on, and it squealed when you turned it off.”
“This will never do,” said Miss Muffet. “I’m getting quite calm again, like a kettle going off the boil. Make another face. Oh, now it’s too late!”
There came a tremendous cantering sound behind them, and Miss Muffet opened her mouth and screamed so loud that her horn spectacles broke into fragments.
“Here he comes!” she said. “O-oh, how frightened I am!”
She gave one more wild shriek as the spider leaped on to the tuffet, and began running about the room with the most amazing speed, the spider cantering after her. They upset the bathing-machine, and knocked the stuffed horse down, they dodged behind the butler, and sent the beehive spinning, and splashed through the curds and whey, which formed a puddle on the floor. Then the door through which David had entered flew open, and out darted Miss Muffet with the spider in hot pursuit. Her screaming, which never stopped for a moment, grew fainter and fainter.
The butler gave an enormous yawn.
“Cleaning up time,” he said, and took a mop from behind the door, and dipped it into the pool of curds and whey. When it was quite soaked, he twisted it rapidly round and round, and a shower of curds and whey deluged David. As it fell on him, it seemed to turn to snow. It was snowing heavily from the roof too, and snow was blowing in through the door. Then he saw that it wasn’t a door at all, but the opening of a street, and that the walls were the walls of houses. It was difficult to see distinctly through the snowstorm, but he felt as if he knew where he was.
Franz Blei (1871–1942) was an Austrian playwright, essayist, and critic who also translated many works into German. From 1908 to 1910, Blei edited the journal Hyperion, which was the first to publish work by Franz Kafka (who later became Blei’s good friend). Many of his works were erotic and religious, so The Big Bestiary of Modern Literature (1918), excerpted here, can be considered somewhat on the border of his usual mode of writing. When first published, The Bestiarium was not well received and, for a time, caused Blei to be excluded from the German book market. For the second edition, Blei adopted the name “Peregrin Steinhövel.” Today, many critics see it as an amusing literary history brimming with sardonic detail. But it is also a historical document, a kind of snapshot of the literary landscape. Some of the entries showcased feature now-obscure writers but are included because of Blei’s delightful and pointed gift for satire. Like any encyclopedia, excerpted or not, the Bestiary is meant to be dipped into, not read straight through. Until now only a thousand-word excerpt had been translated into English.
The Big Bestiary of Modern Literature
Franz Blei
Translated by Gio Clairval
SECTION I (INTRODUCTION)
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION
UNDETERRED BY so many predecessors, I have in this bestiary made the attempt to give a short, as well as vivid and accurate, description of the living animals that the Lord was pleased to bring into the book world, inasmuch as they walk the lands of the German Language—for better and for worse. If we human beings, observing the specimens of this fauna, find it more difficult than ever to recognize the usefulness and purpose of God’s creations, then we should berate ourselves and not the Creator, because, being able to perceive much of the very meaningfulness of His work, we should also assume that even that which seems to be useless has a precise meaning. Given the short span, not only of our own lives but also of the objects of our observations, not to mention our limited means of comprehension, we should not be obsessed with the vain pursuit of deciphering God’s each and every intent.
And allow me to say one more thing to the skeptics who doubt the order immanent in the person of our Lord: that we shall not think ourselves heretical if we imagine God resting from His laborious day-and-night works, and, finding Himself in a merry mood, deciding to fashion our literary fauna, whose description I present here to the hypocrites as well as to my readers and friends, after trying sine ira, but multo studio to determine the species, the appearance, and lifestyle of each animal. I think I am now entitled to say that I have not overlooked any beasts of importance or notoriety and that I have gathered them all quite comfortably within the cage of my bestiary, or, more precisely, in this zoo—for imprisoning all these beasts in a single cage would mean to brave the extraordinary incompatibility of these animals. I would lock them up together only if I were interested in their mutual extermination, assuming God’s role, which is far from my intention. Nevertheless, should the reader reckon that an animal—or more—is missing in this bestiary, I feel confident to affirm that said animal is only familiar to the reader or his family, possibly as a local pet.
Otherwise, I choose not to mention such beasts for the following reason. There is a widespread microbe, the Bacillus imbecillus, which has many thousands of names in common life, but is always the same strain of bacteria that affects thick-skinned individuals of all social statuses and classes. At first the victim, thanks to the thick skin, only feels a pleasant tickling, but soon the infected person falls into complete dementia. This Bacillus imbecillus should be associated with the class of pathogens more than the animal kingdom; therefore it belongs to bacteriology and would be out of place in a bestiary.
I have knowingly left out some species—very few—so that learned reviewers can fully enjoy the pleasure of proving this to me, thus reaffirming the necessity of their existence. The animal lover as well as the animal hater also will immediately notice with pleasure the benefit of this succinctly written bestiary. This work renounces the verbose but pointless appendices that are peculiar to all the Natural History compendia about our literary fauna, instead offering easy-to-remember short phrases.
That being said, I agree with my dear friend Dr. Negelinus in thinking that this bestiary will soon be of no practical use, only to be valued as an antique curiosity. After all, there is every sign of an imminent terrestrial catastrophe, and then the little of the past that remains after this second deluge will be abandoned by most of the literary animals still living, with only sparse fragments available in paleontological museums. It is unlikely that a new Noah will come forth, who would good-naturedly want to build a saving ark for these creatures. Thus, the more urgent my task was to describe our animals while still alive.
As the reader will notice, I have abstained from any criticism of our creatures. We have to accept them as God created them, to Him alone the honor and the responsibility. In general, I only want to briefly comment on a recent heated debate: the question of whether our animals possess intelligence or not. There is no doubt that our ancient, extinct literary wildlife possessed intelligence to a great extent. Today’s animals, with very few exceptions, do not distinguish themselves for their intellect. Nevertheless, a new term has been invente
d to characterize our living beasts: it is the word “Intellectual.” The word was likely minted after the expression canis a non canendo (a dog is called a dog because it can’t sing). The truth is, our present-day animals, with a few exceptions, are quite emotional and not intelligent at all. Indeed, it can be observed that they act under the influence of undefined feelings; they have nothing but feelings and no common sense, not even in their particular fields of activity. To put it bluntly, they let themselves be ensnared by anyone who can skillfully spread some birdlime. Here is what some of our animals claim they will not do: think. They are therefore not to be called “intellectuals,” but more aptly “emotives” or “sensitivists,” who succumb to every opportunity they can grasp by means of their emotions. That which they sometimes call “thoughts” are in fact feelings. Our literary animals share this common error with today’s people.
More eruditorum, I am bound by the duty to thank those who have earned merits with this bestiary, in so far as they, like Hagenbecke with the fauna literarica, often with considerable sacrifices of time, money, patience and strength, have demonstrated interest in this endeavor, whether by discovering animals, or helping them to survive, or at least providing for the possibility of comfortable viewing via crates, preserves, cages, and containers. In particular, I would like to thank for such useful help, first of all, the dean of our literary crowd, a latter-day Hagenbecke, the equally intelligent and insightful Mr. S. Fischer-Berlin, then the multifaceted Mr. G. Müller-Munich, the always curious Mr. K. Wolff-Munich, the daring E. Rowohlt-Berlin, the cordial GH Meyer-Munich, the cautious A. Kippenberg-Leipzig, the persistent G. Kiepenheuer-Potsdam, the lively P. Cassirer-Berlin, and of course Herr Reiß. I thank all these gentlemen for doing their part in bringing some order to the collection of peculiar creatures issued from God’s many-forming hand, as we humans need order in our ignorance of the higher divine sense pervading the Creation on Earth. I must also thank my friend, Dr. Negelinus. I must thank him for his contribution based on special studies, in particular the description of the Fackelkraus, or Kinky Hare.
SECTION II (ENTRIES)
(ABRIDGED)
Altenberg, also “Peter,” exists for unknown reasons because of the mysterious whim that induced God to create a beast consisting only of a single organ: a hyperoptic, perspicacious eye made of a thousand facets—like a fly’s—each of which captures reality by fragmenting the visible world into minuscule images of great sharpness. Onto such a strange creature was of course bestowed only a short life. But against Nature and contrary to God’s purpose, this Eye, swollen with pride, fashioned something resembling a body. The beast became as result somewhat weak, as was to be expected, and the Eye known as Peter was tormented by a damning stream of annoyances, which resulted in damages to the Eye itself. Peter the Eye became so engrossed in the production of his own digestive system, that in the end he was able to see nothing more than the transient content of his own intestines: the Eye no longer reflected the surrounding world, but only the color of his excrements.
* * *
—
The Bahr (Hermann). There is one and only one, and this single item is kept in Salzburg. Its once sharp smell has changed into the gentler odor of holiness, and the beast’s horns, along with its fangs, have fallen off long ago, since the Bahr began to fear the Devil. In exchange for this loss, both mane and beard have grown over and over, which gives the creature a venerable appearance. The hiker who strolls across the Bahr’s reservation in the Unterberg Mountain can spot this unique specimen or even chat with it, for the Bahr is an exceedingly talkative creature, and, lacking a companion, it usually speaks to itself. Its wardens, like the very pious priest, A. B. C. Schmitz, always fear that the Bahr may kill itself, not after a bad fall but because of its continuous blabbering. In truth, the Bahr has fallen over more than once, without sustaining injuries, and anyway the beast falls on its knees at least twice a day. This sign of senile degenerescence is mistaken for piety by the devout Salzburgerians. Such a pious behavior, so rare among animals, never ceases to amaze the populace. A Capuchin monk, therefore, took the Bahr with him to Holy Mass, and the beast behaved in church exactly like its God-fearing minister, so that one could not say if the Bahr followed a Capuchin or a Capuchin followed the Bahr. All in all, the Bahr, during this pious visit, let its venerable mane fall over its small, sharp, and wise eyes.
* * *
—
Becher, or Beaker [possibly Ulrich Becher; unclear -ed.]. This thing does not belong in the Bestiary. The “Becher” is in fact a rocket used in modern fireworks, hence the alternative names “beaker” and “rocket-bird.” The latter appellation is the probable reason why this rocket is mistakenly kept as a pet. The only thing this item has in common with living beings is that this thing never works as its Creator wants. Loaded with any possible and impossible charges, the Beaker either does not ignite at all or it goes off at the wrong time; the rocket flies toward the audience instead of upward and vanishes with a puff, leaving behind—instead of a beautiful umbrella of sparks—a terrible stench.
* * *
—
The Benn (Gottfried) is a small venomous lancet fish, which is mostly found in the corpses of drowned people. If such cadavers are fished out in broad daylight, the Benn happily slithers either out the rear passage or the private parts. The Benn can also try to creep back inside the body through the same channels.
* * *
—
Bie (Oskar). The Bie is a crab with stringy moustaches and the apparent shape of a mollusk. This creature has lived for decades in the columns of daily newspapers, without losing an ounce of its innocence. The Bie feeds on dance and music. It builds a leaf-shaped, rapidly calcified shell once a month from the waste of German literature, and this shell the faux mollusk carries about with sudden backward movements. During this phase of its life, the Bie is very much appreciated by fishermen.
* * *
—
The Bierbaum (Otto Julius), also called “Beertree,” or even Birnbaum (the “pear tree”), as pronounced by the inhabitants of the Saxon-Meissen, was a plant made of cardboard, bookbinder glue, papier à main, and flyleaf. Its fruits were those sugar syrupy crunchy bonbons made of tragacanth gum. Children used to lick the fruit and cry, “How sweet!” This paper pear-tree was a beloved centerpiece on stage at the turn of the twentieth century puppet theater during the German cultural boom. Old and young sang folk songs and old favorites in the shadow cast by its paper-clad leaves and danced with grace, arching and bending their legs, both Christians and Jews as well as Berliners, mischievous and impish, “à la Bieder” or “à la Meier,” with their ornate productions of ring-around-the-rosy—circling reverently the trunk mounted on cardboard, as it symbolized the German Oak. It was impossible to make more poetic an impression than standing under the Beertree in 1902. The ax of war did not strike down the plant. A long time before, the cardboard tree had already been put away deep in the junk-room of German Poetry.
* * *
—
Blei (Franz), or the Lead. The Lead is a fish, smoothly diving and floating in all the fresh waters one can find, owing its name—middle high German blî, old high German blîo = clear—to the transparency of its skin, the exceptionally smooth and thin hide through which the food becomes visible with all its color. One can always see what the Lead has just eaten, and if the color of the food is lively, the Lead becomes entirely invisible, and only the food remains to be seen. Our fish eats a very varied diet, but always fastidiously picked, which is why, in analogy to the pig, this creature is called “the truffle fish” due to its ability to track down the most exquisite treats. Captured and trapped in a bowl, the Lead often serves as decoration in ladies’ boudoirs, and, because it gets easily bored, it creates quite perfect tricks for the spectator’s amusement, using fins and tail. But that is truly a misuse of this freedom-loving fish, which is unfairly prevented from huntin
g for its own pleasure and dietary needs. A curious friendship is maintained by the Lead with the Carthusian Crab, as well as with the Red Pike, but the nature of these friendships is not yet sufficiently understood to be part of a definitive report. Especially since the true Carthusian Crab is very rare and the most nonsensical fables circulate about the Red Pike’s lifestyle.
* * *
—
Paul Bourget. In its green youth, an impeccably ironed, fashionable trouser crease proclaimed that the pants’ content would hold its promise. For a short time. So, for a long time, all the salons were dominated by crowds of iron-pressed trousers—those places where, for generations, people have known that no thighs or calves exist any more, only pant creases. At the very last, and shortly before the inevitable kinks could appear even in the best-quality trousers, this tailored piece, as it always happens in France, turned into a tailcoat and entered the Museum of Fine Arts.
* * *
—
The Brod [The Bread], or also Maxbrod, is the last fashionable pet in the synagogues. It is harmless and takes food from the hand, even when irritated. From this fact one can form a conclusion as to its suitability as a religious animal. Some want to predict that the Maxbrod will one day enjoy the same veneration as the Martin Buber, the famous sacred animal of the Jews. But the small, not at all imposing Maxbrod lacks the stature to fulfill the function, so a greater effort is needed here. In other words, the size of the garden trellis is not augmented when you cut through the climbing twine and take the arch apart. In other words:
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