The Assistant

by Robert Walser

  “Are you drunk? Eh?”

  Tobler was shouting in vain. The assistant had already ascended the stairs. Before the door to the tower room he suddenly stopped short. “Have I lost my mind?” And he ran downstairs again as fast as he was able. Herr Tobler was still sitting in the living room. Joseph remained standing at the threshold, as the woman had done shortly before, and said that he was sorry he had behaved in such an unseemly and senseless fashion, he regretted this, but he also saw that he—had not yet been let go. If Herr Tobler had any business matter he wished to discuss with him, Joseph was at his disposal.

  Tobler shouted at the top of his lungs:

  “My wife is a goose, and you are a lunatic. These damn books!”

  He picked up the lending library book and hurled it to the floor. He was searching his memory for insulting words, but couldn’t find any. In part, the words he found said too little; in part, too much. “Robber” was on the tip of his tongue, but how could this word be an insult? Because of his confusion, his fury knew no bounds. He would have liked to say “cur,” but this word would have served to make mincemeat of all reason. He kept silent, for he found he would be unable to trounce his opponent in a respectable way. Finally he laughed—no, brayed:

  “Get back up to that lair of yours at once!”

  Joseph deemed it advisable to withdraw. When he had reached his room, he remained standing there for a long time, unable to think even the tiniest thought. There was only the one notion flickering before his consciousness like a will-o’-the-wisp: he still hadn’t received his salary and nonetheless had had the audacity … such foolhardiness. What would happen tomorrow? He resolved to throw himself at the woman’s feet. What nonsense! Tormented by the impossibility of thinking, he went out onto the balcony. It was a dry, cold night. The sky was gleaming and glittering and frozen full of stars. It was as if the stars were radiating all the cold everywhere down at the earth. There was still one person walking on the dark road. His shoes made a metallic clacking sound upon the paving-stones. Everything out there appeared to be made either of steel or of stone. The night’s very silence seemed to be ringing out and jangling. Joseph thought of ice skates, then of iron ore, then suddenly of Wirsich. How might he be faring? He felt a faint sensation of friendship toward this person. Surely he would encounter him again one day. But where? He went back to his room and undressed.

  At this moment, a cry of Silvi’s rang out.

  “The poor little thing is being dragged out of bed yet again,” he thought. “Brrrr, how cold it is!” He went on listening for a while, sitting up in bed, but he heard nothing more and soon fell asleep.

  The next morning he crept fainthearted and trembling down to the office. He thought: “Will I be sent packing? What? Could I leave this house?”

  Yes, he felt how dear it had become to him, and in his thoughts he went on:

  “Could it be possible for me to live without doing stupid things? And in this household I do them so splendidly. What will things be like in this regard elsewhere? And how can I think of existing without drinking Tobler’s coffee? Who else will feed me till I’ve had my fill? And so hospitably, and with such variety? In other places, the food is so bland, so utterly the opposite of lavish! And in whose neatly covered and turned-down beds do I intend to go to sleep afterward? No doubt beneath the arches of some cozy bridge! But perhaps I am being too hasty. Oh, Lord, can things already have come to such a pass? And how can I go on breathing without being present in this picturesque landscape so enchanting even in winter? And how will I entertain myself in the evenings, as I have been doing with dear, magnificent Frau Tobler? To whom will I say rude things? Not all people have such a special, personal, lovely way of receiving such boorishness. How sad. How I love this house! And where will a lamp be so tenderly burning as Tobler’s lamps, where will there be a living room so homey, so full of heart, as Tobler’s living room? How despondent all of this makes me. And how will my thoughts get by without everyday objects such as the Advertising Clock, Marksman’s Vending Machine, Invalid Chair and Deep Hole Drilling Machine? Yes, all this will make me unhappy, I realize that. I have ties here, I live here. How strangely devoted I am! And Tobler’s deep rumbling voice, how bitterly I shall miss the sound of it. Why hasn’t he yet come downstairs? I would like to know where I stand. Yes, all these things. What? Where will a summer like this ever again press me with its voluptuous green arms to its blossoming, fragrant bosom like the summer I had the privilege to experience and savor up here? Where, in what region of the world, are such tower rooms to be found? And such a Pauline? Though I have quarreled with her on many an occasion, she too, in the end, is part of this beautiful whole. How wretched I feel. Here my lack of “wits” was tolerated, at least to a certain degree. I would like to know in what other places in the civilized world this would have been permitted. And the garden I watered so often, and the grotto? Where will I be given such things? Persons such as I are generally never permitted to enjoy the pleasantness and magic of gardens. Am I lost? How wretched I feel, I think I’ll have to smoke a cheroot now. That, too, I shall miss. So be it.”

  And when he thought now of the flag from the previous summer, he found himself compelled to grin so as not to have to start crying like a weakling. Then Herr Tobler came into the office, just the same as always, with a proper “Good morning.” Not a word about throwing anyone out.

  Nothing of the sort!

  Joseph put on his humblest and most assiduous face, he was indescribably happy that it had not yet “come to that.” He set about performing the various business-related tasks of the day with a veritable passion, and every few moments he turned about on his chair to see what Tobler was doing at his desk. Tobler was doing the same things he always did.

  “What sort of fit was it you were having yesterday?” the boss inquired in an incredibly friendly tone of voice.

  “Yes, that was stupid,” the assistant said meekly, with a shamefaced smile.

  He needn’t worry, Tobler grumbled. He was going to get his pay.

  “Oh, I don’t even want any pay. I don’t deserve it.”

  “What rubbish,” Tobler replied. “Aside from a few foolish incidents which have regrettably occurred, I am satisfied with you. And if I get the factory I’ve applied for a share in, then with any luck we’ll be able to remain together. In such a case, a bookkeeper will be necessary as well.”

  Later the boss left.

  Dora had taken ill on this day, not seriously. It was only a minor head cold, but this sufficed to cause the girl to be tended to as though her final day had come. She was lying on the sofa in the living room, and when Joseph happened to mention he would be going down to the post office—it was getting on toward evening—he had to promise to bring Dora a couple of oranges from the specialty foods shop, which he did.

  During the evening meal, Frau Tobler constantly addressed words to the charming, indisposed little creature, directing these comments toward the daybed. Silvi was gaping a little with her mouth wide open, as though pondering how it could happen that a person could be ill so charmingly. Why was it that Silvi herself was never sick? Was this simply not for her? Did Nature have to refuse her this attractive condition? Was she too unimportant to be permitted to catch a little head cold? She would so love to be treated a bit more tenderly than usual, just once to be treated a bit more warmly and gently. Dora! No. Silvi gazed at her sister, sorrowful and marveling, as though she were simply incapable of explaining to herself how Dora could be lying there so beautifully ill.

  “Take the spoon out of your mouth, Silvi. I can’t stand looking at it!” Frau Tobler said. Her face appeared at this moment to have taken on two expressions at once, a sweet smooth one for Dora, and, hidden beneath it, a furrowed severe one for Silvi. At the same time, the woman glanced at the clerk as if examining his face to see what he might think or say about this. But Joseph’s face was smiling over at Dora.

  This was certainly no wonder: human beings simply prefer to direct
their eyes to where the beautiful and well-formed can be seen, not to where a teaspoon is being poked about unappetizingly in an expressionless mouth.

  Dora’s round face peered out prettily from amid the snow-white pillows; scattered about them, and pressing hollows into the down, lay the oranges Joseph had brought back with him. This charming, voluptuous, childish mouth. These small but already almost self-consciously lovely and graceful gestures. This suppliant, dear, light voice, this trustingness! Yes, Dora, you were permitted to be trusting, constantly you saw kindness streaming from your mother’s face in your direction.

  How impoverished Silvi was. Would it ever have occurred to this little girl to ask someone to bring her oranges from the specialty foods shop in the village? Absolutely not. She knew all too well how inclined everyone would be to deny her request. Her requests were not even requests at all, but rather just stammered-forth envy. She asked for something only long after Dora was already in possession of the desired object. Never did Silvi think of a wish that was all her own. Silvi’s wishes were all copies of wishes, her ideas were never truly ideas, but rather only imitations of ideas that Dora had had first. Only a true child’s heart can produce fresh ideas, never a heart that has been beaten and despised. A true request is always first and never second rate, just like a true work of art. Silvi, as it seemed, was first and foremost just second, third, perhaps even seventh rate. Everything she said was forged and baked in a false tone, and everything she did seemed somehow passé. How old Silvi was despite her blossom-young years. What injustice!

  Joseph had considered these things for a moment while gazing at Dora. Looking at her, one could form a clear image of her counterpart, and so it wasn’t really necessary to cast one’s scrutinizing and comparing eyes upon Silvi for very long.

  How sad this was. These two unequal children! Joseph would have liked to heave an audible sigh from the very bottom of his contemplations. When it was time for Dora to be carried upstairs to her proper bedroom, he went up to her and was so struck by the sight of her pert, innocent face that he couldn’t help kissing her little hand. With this kiss of homage, his intention was to caress both types at once, the Dora-type and also the Silvi-type. But how could he have actually paid homage to this second type? Impossible! And so he tried to say, at least in thought, something consoling and respectful to that young bitterness and shunted-off-to-the-side-ness, by using his mouth to press these unsaid words upon the hand of sisterly love and natural graciousness.

  Frau Tobler observed this. His behavior met with her approval. “A peculiar individual, this Marti!” she thought. “Just yesterday he was scolding me on Silvi’s behalf, and now I find him half in love with Dora!” She smiled graciously and said to Dora that in future she should keep her hands cleaner if she wished to go on receiving kisses of this sort, and she laughed.

  To Silvi she said goodnight with a grimace, adding that she should pull herself together and stop giving her mother cause to be harsh with her; then she, too, would be treated lovingly. It was a terrible shame the way she forced people to be stern with her and punish her over and over. Her mother was now expecting some real improvement from her. After all, Silvi was getting older. And now off with her, march!

  At first the tone of this brief speech had been trying to sound affectionate, but then, as if this gentleness struck it as inappropriate and impossible, it had gradually, one degree at a time, switched over to severity, until finally it concluded with that imperious “March!”

  When the four children had left, a game of Jass was begun. The assistant had now achieved a fairly significant level of skill in this game, which he demonstrated by winning rather consistently; this gave him cause to choose his words with particular care, for he was quite well acquainted with the irritability that losing provoked in the woman. They played for an hour, from time to time sipping at their glasses of red wine, just as on the evening before. Suddenly Frau Tobler, interrupting their game, said:

  “Did you know, Marti, that my husband is sending me to see my mother-in-law? Yes, it’s true, and tomorrow morning I shall catch the train to go visit her. After all, we must have the money now, otherwise we are lost, and she has not sent a penny. She is extremely stingy or at least keeps a tight grasp on her money. I’m sure you can imagine how unpleasant it is for me to be making such a journey now, but there is no help for it. I shall have to plead—yes, Marti, plead—with this woman whom I have not seen in so many years, whom I hardly know. And she will receive me coldly, condescendingly, this I can feel all too clearly. It will be so easy for her to offend me, to hurt me, for after all one hardly treats a beggar with kid gloves. And she’s always had something against me, just a little, I’ve always felt that. As if I’d always brought nothing but misfortune to her son, my husband. And that’s just the way she’ll treat me now: like a sinner. She will reproach me for the clothes I am wearing, their unnecessary elegance, the utterly superfluous good tailoring. No, I certainly won’t be putting on my new dress. There wouldn’t be any point. Someone who comes begging should come dressed in black, I shall put on my old black silk dress, that should make a very subservient impression. Yes, Joseph, as you see, other people as well are having to force themselves and endure and struggle their way to modesty. That’s just how it is, and we don’t even know where all of this has come from, and how, and why so quickly. What a world!”

  “Let us hope you are successful,” the assistant remarked. She continued:

  “That’s why Tobler is sending me in the first place, he thinks that at such a difficult and awkward juncture as this, seeing me will be more pleasing to his mother than seeing him. If it weren’t for that, I don’t see why he couldn’t be making this journey himself. There might also be a certain degree of laziness on his part. Men are happy to take upon themselves all sorts of dry, dispassionate labors. But the moment it’s a question of some sort of personal or inner sacrifice, a duty and task involving the heart or anything emotionally strenuous, then they prefer to send their women to the front in their stead, saying: ‘You go! You’ll do better than I would!’—which one is then almost forced to take as a sort of favor, a caress.”

  Both of them laughed. Frau Tobler went on:

  “Yes, you are laughing! Not that I would command you not to. Go on and laugh. I’m laughing as well, though in fact both of us ought to be in a more sober frame of mind. Yes, let’s hope I’ll be successful. But then what am I saying! I for my part gave up all hopes offering the promise of success for Tobler’s enterprises a long time ago. This is how things now stand with me: my faith in my husband’s aptitude for business has begun to falter decisively. I believe I am now convinced that he is not sufficiently callous and sly to be able to carry out profitable business ventures. It is my opinion that during all this time he has taken on only the tone of voice of clever cunning people, their public behavior, their mannerisms, but not their abilities. Of course, a person who is successful in business need not necessarily be a bloodsucker and villain. This is not at all what I wish to say. But my husband is too volatile, too hasty, too good and too natural in his sentiments. He is also too easily duped. I’m sure you must be surprised to hear me speaking in such a way, but believe me, we women, who are constantly chained to the narrow confines and limitations of our households, do quite a lot of thinking about things, and we also see things and feel things. It is given to us to guess at things a little, since the correct sciences are our sworn enemies. We have a knack for reading glances and behavior. Oddly enough, we never say anything, we keep silent, since we express ourselves so poorly as a rule, and always so inappropriately. Our words generally just annoy our overburdened men without convincing them. And so we women just go on living, declaring ourselves satisfied with most everything that is happening around us, we speak of trivial matters, which makes us ever more vulnerable to the suspicion that we are intellectually small and subordinate, and yet we are always content, at least I think so. No, my husband’s ship is never going to come scraping into por
t, my little finger tells me so, and the shoe on my foot, and my own nose. He is too fond of living in high style, and that is something which entrepreneurs cannot allow themselves, at least at the outset. He is too wild, and that makes things tricky. He loves his own schemes too much, and this undermines them. He is far too sunny a person and takes things too literally, too abruptly, and thus far too simply. He has such a beautiful, full character, and such individuals never, or almost never, succeed in undertakings of this sort. Goodness, Marti, the way I’m talking today!”

  He remained silent and allowed himself an imperceptible smile. She had already recommenced speaking:

  “People fear my Carl, and at the same time they hoodwink him and laugh at him behind his back, for some reason they take special pleasure in misfortunes that happen to befall him in particular, and I think this is because he has displayed his affluence and his possessions too openly and with too little modesty, in a way that forces one to take notice. He has always been naïve enough to assume that others would take pleasure in the pleasure he himself takes in life and delight in his delights: obviously a standpoint diametrically opposed to a correct view of matters. He has always been overly generous, this is a weakness, one that in my eyes is excusable, but it has proven inexcusable in the judgment of those who enjoyed just these acts of wasteful benevolence, in other words who profited from him. He has his own particular way of being a bit brusque and loud, and now that he has fallen into unfortunate circumstances, people are calling that braggadocio. If he were successful, then this very same habit would be called flair! Yes. No, my husband would have done much better if he had never struck out on his own, had never set himself up independently, but rather had gone on quietly in his modest position as technical assistant. We were all doing so well back then. Admittedly we didn’t have a house of our own, but what need is there of such a thing, since such a house just fills up with worries? When he came home from work, we would take our quiet, pretty walk around the hill. It was too beautiful to just throw it away willfully like that, but one day it did in fact get thrown away.”