by Robert Musil
This impersonal seeing eye, the surveying curiosity of the public, was of course a person. There are usually quite a lot of them, but in the Kakanian metropolis at that time there was one who overtopped all the rest: Privy Councillor Meseritscher. Born in the Wallachian town of Meseritsch, whence his name, this publisher, editor, and news correspondent of the Parliamentary and Social Gazette, which he had founded in the sixties of the last century, had come to the capital as a young man, sacrificing his expectation of taking over his parents’ tavern in his native town in order to become a journalist, having been attracted by the political promise of liberalism that was then at its zenith. And before long he had made his contribution to that era by founding a news agency, which began by supplying small local items of a police nature to the newspapers. Thanks to the industry, reliability, and thoroughness of its owner, this rudimentary agency not only earned the esteem of the papers and the police but was soon noticed by other high authorities as well, and used by them for placing items they wanted to publicize without taking responsibility, so that the agency soon found itself in a privileged position for tapping unofficial information from official sources. A man of great enterprise and a tireless worker, Meseritscher, as he saw this success developing, extended his activity to include news from the Court and Society; indeed, he would probably never have left Meseritsch for the capital if this had not been his guiding vision. Flawless reporting of “those present” was regarded as his specialty. His memory for people and what was said about them was extraordinary, and this assured him of the same splendid relationship with the salon that he had with the prison. He knew Society better than it knew itself, and his unflagging devotion enabled him to make people who had met at a gathering properly acquainted with each other the very next morning, like some old cavalier in whom everyone has for decades been confiding all their marriage plans and the problems they were having with their dressmakers. And so, on every sort of great occasion, the zealous, nimble, ever-obliging, affable little man was a familiar institution, and in his later years it was only he and his presence that conferred indisputable prestige to such occasions.
Meseritscher’s career had reached a peak when the title Privy Councillor was bestowed upon him, and this involves an interesting peculiarity. Kakania was the most peace-loving of countries, but at some time or other it had decided, in the profound innocence of its convictions, that, wars being a thing of the past, its civil service should be organized as a hierarchy corresponding to military ranks, complete with similar uniforms and insignia. Since then the rank of Privy Councillor corresponded to that of a lieutenant colonel in His Majesty’s Imperial and Royal Army. But even though this was not in itself an exalted rank, the peculiarity was that according to an immutable tradition, which, like everything immutable in Kakania, was modified only in exceptional cases, Meseritscher should really have been named an Imperial Councillor. An Imperial Councillor was not, as one might suppose from the term, superior to a Privy Councillor, but inferior: it only corresponded to the rank of captain. Meseritscher should have been an Imperial Councillor because that title was given, other than to certain civil servants, only to those engaged in independent professions such as, for example, court barber or coach builder, and, by the same token, writers and artists; while Privy Councillor was at the time an actual high-ranking title in the civil service. That Meseritscher was nevertheless the first and only member of his profession to be so honored expressed something more than the high honor of the title itself—indeed, even more than the daily reminder not to take too seriously whatever happens in this country of ours; the unjustified title was a subtle and discreet way of assuring the indefatigable chronicler his close association with Court, State, and Society.
Meseritscher had been a model for many journalists in his time, and was on the boards of leading literary associations. The story also went around that he had had made for himself a uniform with a gold collar, but only put it on, sometimes, at home. Chances are the rumor was untrue, because deep down Meseritscher had always preserved certain memories of the tavern trade in Meseritsch, and a good tavernkeeper also knows the secrets of all his guests but doesn’t make use of everything he knows; he never brings his own opinions into a discussion but enjoys noting and telling everything in the way of fact, anecdote, or joke. And so Meseritscher, whom one met on every social occasion as the acknowledged memorializer of beautiful women and distinguished men, had himself never even thought of going to a good tailor; he knew all the behind-the-scenes intricacies of politics, yet had never dabbled in politics in even a single line of print; he knew about all the discoveries and inventions of his time without understanding any of them. He was perfectly satisfied to know that they existed and were “present.” He honestly loved his time, and his time reciprocated his affection to a certain degree, because he daily reported its presence to the world.
When Diotima caught sight of him as he entered, she immediately beckoned him to her side.
“My dear Meseritscher,” she said, as sweetly as she knew how. “You surely didn’t take His Excellency’s speech in the Upper House today as an expression of our position—you couldn’t have taken it literally?”
His Excellency, in the context of the Minister’s downfall and exasperated by his cares, had made a widely noticed speech in the Upper House in which he not only charged his victim with having failed to show the true constructive spirit of cooperation and strictness of principle, but also let his zeal carry him to making general observations that in some inexplicable fashion culminated in a recognition of the importance of the press, in which he reproached this “institution risen to the status of a world power” with pretty much everything with which a feudal-minded, independent, nonpartisan, Christian gentleman could charge an institution that in his view is the dead opposite of himself. It was this that Diotima was diplomatically trying to smooth over, and Meseritscher listened pensively as she found increasingly fine and unintelligible language for Count Leinsdorf’s real point of view. Then suddenly he laid a hand on her arm and magnanimously interrupted her:
“My dear lady, how can you upset yourself like this?” he summed up. “His Excellency is a good friend to us, isn’t he? What if he did exaggerate? Why shouldn’t he, a gallant gentleman like him?” And to prove that his relationship to the Count was unruffled, he added: “I’ll just go and greet him now!”
That was Meseritscher! But before he moved off he turned to Diotima once more and asked confidentially:
“What about Feuermaul, dear lady?”
Smiling, Diotima shrugged her beautiful shoulders. “Nothing so very earthshaking, my dear Councillor. We wouldn’t like it to be said that we rebuffed anyone who came to us in good faith!”
“Good faith—that’s rich,” Meseritscher thought on his way to Count Leinsdorf. But before he reached him, indeed even before his thoughts had reached a conclusion, his host stepped amicably into his path.
“My dear Meseritscher, my official sources have let me down again,” Section Chief Tuzzi began with a smile. “So I’m turning to you as our semi-official source of information. Can you tell me anything about this Feuermaul who’s here this evening?”
“What would I have to tell you, Herr Section Chief?” Meseritscher deprecated.
“I’m told he’s a genius.”
“Glad to hear it!” Meseritscher answered.
If the news is to be reported with speed and confidence, today’s news should not be too different from yesterday’s, or what one knows already. Even genius is no exception: real, acknowledged genius, that is, whose significance can be readily assessed in its own time. Not so the genius that is not instantly recognized by all and sundry! This sort of genius has something distinctly ungenial about it, a quality, moreover, that is not even solely its own, so that it is possible to misjudge it in every respect. Privy Councillor Meseritscher had a solid inventory of geniuses, which he tended with care and attention, but he was not keen on adding new items. The older and more experience
d he grew, in fact, the more he had even formed the habit of regarding any rising artistic genius, especially in his neighboring field of literature, merely as a frivolous interference with his own work of reportage, and he hated it in all righteousness until it became ripe for inclusion in his lists of “those present.” At that time Feuermaul still had a long way to go, and his way had yet to be smoothed for him. Privy Councillor Meseritscher was not quite sure he was in favor.
“They say he’s supposed to be a great poet,” Tuzzi repeated hesitantly, and Meseritscher retorted firmly: “Who says so? The critics on the book page? I ask you, Section Chief, what difference does that make? The specialists say these things, and what of it? Many of them say the opposite. We’ve even known the same experts to say one thing one day and something else the next. Does it really matter what they say? A real literary reputation has to have reached the illiterates; only then can you depend on it! Would you like to know what I think? What a great man does, apart from his arriving and leaving, is nobody’s business!”
He had worked himself up into a gloomy fervor, and his eyes were glued to Tuzzi’s. Tuzzi gave up and said nothing.
“What’s really going on here this evening, Section Chief?” Meseritscher asked him.
Tuzzi smiled absently and shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing. Nothing, really. A little ambition. Have you ever read any of Feuermaul’s books?”
“I know what he writes about: peace, friendship, goodness, et cetera.”
“So you don’t think too much of him?” Tuzzi said.
“Good Lord!” Meseritscher started wriggling. “Who am I to say …?” At this point Frau Drangsal came bearing down on them, and Tuzzi had to take a courteous step or two in her direction. Meseritscher saw the chance to slip into a breach he had espied in the circle around Count Leinsdorf, and seizing it before anyone else could waylay him, he dropped anchor beside His Grace.
Count Leinsdorf was talking with the Minister and some other men, but as soon as Meseritscher had paid them all his devout respects, His Grace turned slightly and drew him aside.
“Meseritscher,” he said intently. “Promise me that there will be no misunderstandings; the gentlemen of the press never seem to know what to write. Now then: Nothing whatsoever has changed in our position since the last time. Something may change. We don’t know about that. For the time being there must be no interference. So please, even if one of your colleagues should ask you, remember that this whole evening here is nothing more than a private party given by Frau Tuzzi.”
Meseritscher’s eyelids slowly and solicitously conveyed that he had understood these top-level commands. And since one confidence deserves another, he moistened his lips, which then gleamed as his eyes should have done, and asked: “And what about Feuermaul, Your Excellency, if I may be permitted to ask?”
“Why on earth shouldn’t you?” Count Leinsdorf replied in surprise. “There’s nothing whatever to be said about Feuermaul! He was invited because Baroness Wayden wouldn’t leave us in peace until he was! What else should there be? Perhaps you know something?”
Up to this point Privy Councillor Meseritscher had not been inclined to take the Feuermaul question too seriously, but regarded it as one of the many social rivalries he ran into every day. But now that even Count Leinsdorf denied so energetically that there was anything in it, Meseritscher had to think again, and came to the conclusion that something important was in the wind. “What can they be up to now?” he brooded as he wandered through the throng, pondering one by one the most daring possibilities of domestic and foreign policy. But after a while he decided abruptly: “There’s probably nothing to it,” and refused to let himself be distracted any longer from his job of reporting the news.
For however much it appeared to be in conflict with his mission in life, Meseritscher did not believe in great events; indeed, he did not hold with them. When one believes that one is living in a very important, very splendid, and very great period, one does not welcome the idea that anything especially important, splendid, and great has yet to happen in it. Meseritscher was no alpinist, but if he had been he would have said that his attitude was as correct as it was to put lookout towers on middling-high mountains but never on the really high peaks. Since such analogies did not occur to him, it was enough to register a certain uneasiness and make up his mind that he would not mention Feuermaul in his column at all, not even by name.
159
A GREAT EVENT IS IN THE MAKING. MEETING SOME OLD ACQUAINTANCES
Ulrich, who had been standing beside his cousin while she was speaking with Meseritscher, asked her as soon as they were alone for a moment:
“I’m sorry I arrived too late; how was your first encounter with La Drangsal?”
Diotima raised her heavy eyelashes to give him a single world-weary glance and dropped them again.
“Delightful, of course. She’d been to see me. We’ll arrange something or other this evening. As if it made any difference!”
“You see!” Ulrich said, in the tone of their old conversations, as if to draw a final line under all that.
Diotima turned her head and gave her cousin a quizzical look.
“I told you already,” Ulrich said. “Now it’s almost all over, as if nothing had happened.” He needed to talk: when he had got home that afternoon, Agathe had been there but soon left again; they had spoken only a few brief words before they came to Diotima’s; Agathe had dressed with the aid of the gardener’s wife. “I did warn you!” Ulrich said.
“Against what?” Diotima asked slowly.
“Oh, I don’t know. Against everything!”
In fact, he no longer knew himself what he had not warned her against: her ideas, her ambition, the Parallel Campaign, love, intellect, the Jubilee Year, the world of business, her salon, her passions; against the dangers of sensibility and of casually letting things take their course, against letting herself go too far and holding herself too much in check, against adultery and marriage. There was nothing he had not warned her against. “That’s how she is,” he thought. Everything she did looked ridiculous to him, yet she was so beautiful it made him sad.
“I warned you,” Ulrich repeated. “I hear that you’re no longer interested in anything but the scientific approach to sexual problems.”
Diotima ignored this. “Do you think this Drangsal’s protégé is really gifted?” she asked.
“Certainly,” Ulrich replied. “Gifted, young, undeveloped. His success and this woman will be the ruin of him. In this country newborn babies are ruined by being told that they are people with fabulous instincts that intellectual development would only rob them of. He sometimes comes up with good ideas, but can’t let ten minutes go by without making an ass of himself.” He leaned over to say in her ear: “Do you know anything specific about that woman?”
Diotima shook her head almost imperceptibly.
“She’s dangerously ambitious,” Ulrich said. “But not uninteresting from the point of view of your current researches. Where beautiful women used to wear a fig leaf, she wears a laurel leaf! I hate women like that!”
Diotima did not laugh, nor even smile; she merely inclined her head toward the “cousin.”
“And how do you find him as a man?” he asked.
“Pathetic,” Diotima whispered. “Like a lambkin running to premature fat.”
“What of it? The beauty of the male is only a secondary sexual characteristic,” Ulrich said. “What’s primarily exciting about him is the expectation of his success. Ten years from now Feuermaul will be an international celebrity; Drangsal’s connections will take care of that, and then she’ll marry him. If he remains a celebrity, it’ll be a happy marriage.”
Diotima bethought herself and gravely corrected him: “Happiness in marriage depends on factors one cannot judge without first subjecting oneself to a certain discipline!” Then she abandoned him as a proud ship abandons the quay alongside which it has lain. Her duties as hostess bore her away from him with the barest nod, no
t even a glance, as she cast off her moorings. But she did not mean it unkindly; on the contrary, Ulrich’s voice had affected her like an old tune from her youth. She even wondered privately what she might learn about him by subjecting his sexuality to the illumination of a scientific study. Oddly enough, in all her detailed research into these problems, she had never thought of connecting them with him.